Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  O come all ye Websworn, joyful and triumphant

  O come ye, O come ye to Zigmhen

  come and behold him

  born the king of spiders

  Hate. Seething hatred frothing from her mouth like clouds billowing over the edge of the world. The nerve of that beast—and of that yellow-robed pretender! Fucking worthless vulture, carrion bottom feeder, laughing rot-faced sentient bag of shit and flesh—usurper to the throne of the true Chosen, loathed and unloved, vilified immortal given death by the living shadow of the idolaters and blasphemers!

  what the gruesome tidings be

  that inspire your deathly song?

  Hate. Fear. Solitude. Hate. Fear. Solitude. Exhaustion.

  gloria in excelsis Raxxina

  Breath coming faster, heart pounding in her rib cage amidst shouts from all sides, from without and within, glimpses of savagery and despair. Betrayed. Betrayed by the Vant’therax. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, blood for blood, eyes for eyes, smashed flakes of teeth ground into the earth. Mocked in her own image, given life. Now she would take it back, retribution.

  glory to Raxxinoth

  Hate them. Kill them. Purge them. Hate them. Kill them. Purge them.

  all glory in the highest

  Focus, you fucking stupid girl!

  The voice in her head rang out, banishing the terrible images and thoughts, replacing them with the statue-lined corridor once more. At once the Instinct began to flow through her veins in toxic quantities.

  Run! Run!

  The word kept pounding in her head. Her muscles began to overload beyond their physical limit. The strange thoughts became undeniably her own, and that mantra fell in time with the surging of her legs. Sweat ran down Spinneretta’s face. Her heart felt like it would explode. Her overdriven nervous system could smell the terror pounding through Arthr’s body as he ran at her heels. We have to get out of here. We have to get out.

  The torchlight faded away, and the natural light of the star embraced them. They swung out of the hall and took a sharp left, hurtling down the loggia in the direction they’d come from. Faded mosaics raced by on their left, the crumbling colonnade on the right. Outside the gallery windows, the monolithic towers and turrets of the fortress seemed to mock them, throwing cold shadows over the keep. The red-black ashlar almost appeared to writhe, teeming with swarms of protospiders awakened by the mocking laughter of the Helixweaver.

  “You can never escape me!” Nemo’s voice echoed behind them. “I will eat your hearts!”

  His words sent barbs into her stomach. There was nowhere to run from his omnipresence.

  “Where are we going?” Arthr asked in a panic.

  “I don’t know! God, I don’t know!” She had to keep running. That was all they could do. The loggia continued onward, and beyond lay the stairs leading down. To the rest of the fortress. To the hidden halls, to safety. They had to run, they had to hide. And just as the Helixweaver’s mocking shouts challenged that resolve, so too did the voice in her head rise to guide her steps onward. Without any other course of action, she just ran on, praying that the voice knew where it was taking them.

  Many times have I now tried to escape this prison. But no matter how long I wait, it seems the magic has left me, banished by the dying flame-beast. And so I am left to wander these halls, alone and without purpose. The will to rebuild what has been destroyed is gone. No matter how many times I try, I shall forever be without company; forever damned to rot in silence and solitude.

  I find myself thinking back upon my youth. Being vilified, hated. A burden upon a society of cowards. What has changed since those times? Dozens of generations of those people have fallen to dust since I left them. And I believe now that the dead are the lucky, for death brings no false promises. But this longevity Mother Raxxinoth has cursed me with offers no escape. I was then, and shall forever be, alone. And it has never been more clear than now.

  Chapter 40

  The Break of Dawn

  The march across the subterranean bridge toward the cylindrical fortress stretched on and on. Now that Mark and the others had left the safety of the claustrophobic halls, the true scale of the endless cavern became self-evident. Even the great span they crossed was lined with gigantic stone drums with arched doorways leading to unseen labyrinths. From afar, they’d resembled little more than support towers, but now that they walked among them they appeared large enough to contain cities of their own.

  A cold wind swept over the bridge, making the columns of torches flutter like flags. The Vant’therax, who now hid within Mark and Annika’s shadows for fear of discovery, wove a winding path, subtly gesturing and directing their movements. Not too close to the stout towers along the bridge, for the hungry eyes of the cult may have lurked within. Nor too close to the edges, for it would have made them too visible.

  As they drew nearer, the walls of the massive structure loomed above them like a god standing over his hapless subjects. Even looking up at its towering form was dizzying, so Mark kept his gaze set dead ahead, where a great metal door stood at the nearing end of the bridge. Geologically recent compared to the rest of the underkingdom, the door stared them down with rusted swirl designs that resembled the eyes of an owl.

  Annika sidled up next to Mark and spoke in a low tone. “Doesn’t this feel weird?”

  “That’s an awfully kind word for this.”

  “I mean how empty this place is. Except for those three cretins up top, we haven’t seen anyone at all. Isn’t that . . . wrong?”

  Mark leaned his head toward one of the side towers hanging from the bridge. “Have you seen how huge this place is? How many people could possibly be in this cult? A few hundred? A thousand strong at most? With those numbers, one could spend their entire life exploring without ever encountering another soul.”

  She nodded with a small shiver. “While that may be true, shouldn’t there have been something? A patrol, or a guard, or . . . ”

  Mark looked straight ahead at the great ornamented door as it drew nearer foot by foot. “Stay alert. Just in case.”

  When at long last they came upon the huge door, the Vant’therax emerged from the shadows and looked it up and down with discerning expressions. “Beyond this door,” Silt said, “is the entrance hall. Within, we will find two stairways. One leading up to the ceremonial grounds and, higher above, to the dwellings of the archons. The other leads deep down into the caverns below, where the Helixweaver’s sanctum lies. Which will you pursue?”

  Mark chewed his lip. “You ask me?”

  Silt nodded.

  “You said that the Helixweaver is certain to know the spell of passage? Then I say we go right for him. Open the gate to the Web, and chop the head off the serpent in one strike.”

  “A wise choice.” Silt crossed his arms and jerked his head toward the door. “Throw it open.”

  Dirge and Faul lurched forward and laid their hands upon the door. When the slabs of metal began to move, there was no sign of cracking rust, nor of dust settled into the cracks. It swung wide with a smooth motion, barely a creak in its millennia-old joints.

  The door clanged open, and a wide, well-lit chamber with an impossibly high ceiling appeared. An interior balcony wrapped around the hall on all sides, lined by ageless statues gazing down upon them with disgust as they entered the hall. The floor had once been a regal mosaic, though the tesserae had lost nearly all their color. It reminded Mark of the plaza up on the surface, but the images of these tiles were decadent, their designs thankfully lost to the ages.

  But only a few steps into the tower, a voice screeched and echoed off the high walls and the darkened heights above. “Now!”

  Mark stopped dead in his tracks. From beyond the ledge of the second level balcony, and from behind the featureless statues, they emerged. Some were clad in black robes, some wore modern street dress, and some were nearly naked save the leather trappings about their frames. All wielded either crude stone spears or silver knives. As the numbers o
f the Yellow Dawn became clear, lines emerged along the second level, with the greatest of their number gathered at the top of the stairs at the end of the hall. The trap had been sprung. All at once, they’d been surrounded.

  Annika drew her revolver but had nowhere to aim it. “Well, fucking fuck me. I hate being right!”

  Mark swept his gaze across the room, half in disbelief. There must have been hundreds of them. A chill of fear came upon him, and he whipped his head around toward the door. His blood ran cold. A phalanx made up of dozens of Websworn was streaming across the bridge toward their backs, spears extended in a wall of blades. The fucking towers! The Vant’therax were right about them watching. There was no way out now.

  As the clamor of noise rang out from the hall and the bridge, the Vant’therax vanished into their swirling puddles on the ground. Mark gritted his teeth. Cowards!

  From across the room, the same shrill voice from before called out again. “False Ones! Reveal yourselves, or the other two die.”

  A moment of quiet hesitation followed. The shadows writhed and twisted. The three yellow robes appeared around them again. “We need no invitation from the likes of you,” Dirge said with a wet sneer.

  Mark’s heart skipped a beat. He would never have expected the Vant’therax to cave to a threat to his own life. Though he didn’t think he was in much danger, the pounding spike in his eye socket was quick to cast doubt on his confidence.

  “And with that,” the voice above called, “the allies of the Yellow have assembled! Now, tell us where you’ve hidden the King’s children, or you will die here in obscurity.”

  Dirge’s stance widened, his posture dropping to a low, apish gait. “You want them? Too bad. You’ll never find them.”

  A growl rumbled from the other side of the chamber. “Very well. Seize them!”

  Shouts went up from the throngs of black robes. As the crowds of cultists poured off the balcony like running water, at last Mark saw who the shrill voice belonged to. It was a deathly thin old man on the far end of the room, perched on the ledge on his haunches like an undead eagle. Like the unluckiest of the Websworn, he was clad in no more than sashes and bits of cloth.

  Mark scowled up at the man. “Tell me,” he yelled, widening his posture, “are you one of the famed archons?”

  The old man glared at him. “I will ask the questions. Now, reveal the locations of the children of the spider.”

  The wall of robes drew nearer, their daggers and spears glinting off the firelight in threatening flashes.

  Annika swept the barrel of her revolver across the room, not committing to any angle of attack. “Mark. The ones in street clothes. They’re the people from town, aren’t they?”

  Seeing the hungry fervor in their eyes, he could only nod. “Victims of the Dawn’s control.” Although that was not strictly true; there were a few faces among the gathered congregation that seemed cognizant—scared. Some were here of their own free will, or had been forced into it without suffering the Nothem. But among the robed and naked Websworn creeping in from behind, there were children. Not ten years old, children reared by the disciples of madness and hatred, children for whom normal life would be impossible. They were born with no choice but to suckle at the teat of death and carnage—just as he had been.

  “This is your last chance,” the archon’s voice boomed. “Where are the King’s children? Reveal where you’ve hidden them, or you will all die here and now. Which will it be?”

  At Mark’s sides, the Vant’therax stayed silent. Annika passed a worried glance in his direction. He took a slow breath and raised his gaze toward the elder on the ledge. “Here’s my counter-offer: open a portal to the Web for us. Or you will face our wrath.”

  The archon scowled and scratched at a crusty patch on his arm. “You are in no position to demand anything! You have aligned yourselves with deceivers—knaves—and if you do not recant your choice, then we shall kill you!”

  Mark clenched his fists. There was no easy choice. How many of these people were blameless? Blameless? Was the Vigil blameless? Golgotha. Victor. Ariel. There was no point in pretending he represented some virtue these savages lacked. They were two sides of the same coin, the only difference being that he was the one with the power to follow through on his threats. It was a dark day. It was the first day he’d felt true guilt at the prospect of killing his opponents. But it was also the day it was least relevant.

  He raised his face once more toward the archon. “Kill us? You keep spouting those words. Have you nothing more interesting to offer me than that same threat? Do you think this exalted death of yours scares me? You think it possible to kill us? To kill me?” He laughed a cold, dry breath. “Let me explain something to you: since the day I was born, the only thing I’ve ever been good at is killing people. And I dare say I’ve gotten pretty good at it. So you’d better watch your threats. You’re challenging me to my own game—and I’m done playing around.”

  Mark flashed forward, Flames blurring the line between matter and theory. The room became a verdant smear. A second later, he emerged on the other side of the mass of robes, and a cry of fear went up from the archon. “It’s the Warren!” he shouted. “Kill him!”

  Mark bit down against the pain in his head. The greatest portion of the knife and spear-wielding robes turned toward him. Good, he thought. That’ll give Annika some breathing room, at least. With a mad grin coming upon him, he set his sights on the spearman vanguard on the second level rushing toward the edge. “Come, Websworn,” he bellowed. “Let us see what your Malefice can do!”

  The world blurred again as the Flames threw him forward. He rematerialized upon the second floor amidst the rushing robes. He threw his arms into the ground, and a blast of cataclysmic power rolled off his shoulders. The shockwave threw the tide of Websworn backward. The sacred Flames blanketed his arms. He flashed ahead into the fallen battalion and unleashed another wave of force that scattered the robes and the few laymen among them. Eying where the archon was retreating, he pushed himself forward and ignored the reformation of the horde. Each step was agony, but pain was meaningless now. He just had to get close enough to gaze into the archon’s eyes and rip the knowledge of the portal spell from his mind. That was the only way.

  A knife fell at his back, but Mark was already moving. The blade sliced the top layer of skin and was then a mere memory. He summoned even more power from the depths of his exhausted mind. His hands dragged chains of explosions behind him. Bodies flew like rag dolls. The archon staggered back in fright. As soon as the path ahead was clear, Mark jumped for him, eyes already blazing with the precursor to his spell.

  But the magic in his eyes flickered and then scattered.

  He stumbled, hands shooting to the sides of his skull. A scream tore its way out of his throat. Everything spun; it felt like he’d been struck in the temple by a sledgehammer, but he was able to catch himself before his consciousness fell into the black. One of his legs folded, but he shifted his stance and barely avoided smashing his face into the floor. Before he could recover, a blade fell into his shoulder. No glancing blow this time; it split right through the muscle and sent a cold agony shivering through his nerves.

  His vision blurred. No. Not now. His jaw was so tight that it hurt almost as much as the knife. Don’t you dare fail me now. One hand sought the invading blade. He shook the attacking robe off with a feeble blast of magic. His fingers coiled about the slippery hilt. He tore the dagger out and cast it aside. He beckoned the Flames of Y’rokkrem to burn closed the wound, cringing as—for the first time in his life—the pain in his brain overshadowed the pain of his flesh searing shut. Not now. I won’t let you fail me. His teeth chattered as a groan escaped of its own accord. His legs grew heavy. The tears in his eyes made the image of the archon run. His target shifted and melted as his leg gave out beneath him. For a moment, everything went dark. All sound inexplicably faded from his ears as his consciousness dipped toward oblivion.

  No. Not now. Not fuck
ing now!

  But his muscles wouldn’t move. Total enervation. Even his will couldn’t push him any further. And if he used any more magic, it could kill him. And yet there was still a way. Within him dwelt a boundless origin of power. But he cringed at the mere thought.

  Ellie . . .

  The memory grabbed him by the arms and shook him. The promise. He couldn’t break the promise he made to her. He couldn’t use that power again, ever. And yet . . .

  Promise me that you’ll save that stupid girl, by any means necessary. Promise me you’ll end it this time.

  The conflicting promises tore at his heart. There was only one way out, and it was to betray his oldest surviving promise—the one he swore upon his bloodline. The oath he made to the memory of his sister. But for Spinneretta—for even the chance of her rescue—was that not a price worth paying? That girl whose birth cursed her with the burden of a terrible god’s legacy, whose life had touched his in ways he couldn’t have anticipated—that girl he loved. Was that not ransom enough for his sins?

  He cringed as the fire crackled and vanished in his eyes. There was no answer; there was no conclusion to the swirling paradox. No matter what he chose, death would forever follow, until it finally caught him. And with the heavy hands squeezing his shoulders, it seemed at last it had.

  They were all around him. As the Websworn and the enthralled cultists swarmed, Mark cast a glance down at the lower level. He caught sight of the Vant’therax retreating into the shadows and leaving Annika alone. Backpedaling toward the door, where the phalanx awaited, she tentatively took aim with her revolver. But after scanning the endless horde, she raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. The mob leveled their spears at her throat, laughing and hopping like children.