Nekropolis n-1

by Tim Waggoner

  Devona looked like she was going to argue, but then thought better of it and nodded. We continued with Varvara in the lead, and as we approached the other Lords, the Demon Queen opened her arms and said, “Darlings! So nice to see you all!”

  “And for us to see so much of you,” Talaith said cattily as she eyed Varvara’s outfit. “Why didn’t you just come naked this year?”

  “Is that a criticism, or are you voicing a regret?” Varvara shot back.

  Talaith reddened but didn’t reply. She looked smaller than the avatar which had attacked us in Glamere, older and more tired too. Physically, she appeared to be in her late sixties, with short gray hair, baggy eyes, and sagging skin. She’d looked better before the destruction of the Overmind: one more reason for her to hate me. In diametric opposition to Varvara’s skimpy outfit, Talaith wore a simple black and white dress reminiscent of Puritan garb. I wondered if anyone had ever attempted to burn her at the stake. If so, I was sorry they’d failed.

  Talaith turned to Devona and me, and her upper lip curled in disgust. “I knew your standards were low, Varvara, but really.”

  “Watch your tongue, witch,” Galm growled. “The woman is one of my birth daughters.” Maybe Devona, as a half human, didn’t rate as high in the vampire hierarchy as the fully Bloodborn, but it seemed she was high enough for Galm to object to anyone insulting her.

  “I was referring to the zombie,” Talaith covered smoothly. She looked to the thin-faced man. “Really, Edrigu, isn’t there something you can do about this…thing? After all, as one of the undead, he falls under your purview.”

  The corners of Edrigu’s thin lips raised a fraction in what I assumed was meant to be a smile. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and was bald save for a fine layer of black hair along the sides and back of his head. He wore a tattered white shroud covered with grave mold, and through the ragged cloth glimpses of not flesh but bone were visible.

  “What would you have me do, precisely, Talaith?” His voice was a hollow monotone, a lonely echo in a deserted mausoleum.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Wave your hand and make him collapse into dust, something along those lines.”

  Edrigu gave me a look and I felt the mark on my palm itch. He knew he didn’t have to do anything to me; I was due to turn to dust soon enough as it was.

  “Sour grapes, Talaith,” Amon said. “You’re still bitter Mr. Richter and his late partner disrupted one of your little schemes a while back.”

  “Not much of a scheme, as I recall,” Varvara said. “Even if Matt hadn’t happened along, I doubt it would’ve worked.”

  Talaith glared at them both, but otherwise did nothing. The bantering Darklords reminded me of wary jungle predators facing each other over a water hole. They hated each other and weren’t afraid to show it, but this wasn’t the time or place to do anything about it. But I could see in Talaith’s eyes that she was keeping track of every insult and adding it to her list of grievances against her fellow Lords.

  Edrigu stepped closer to me and reached out to shake my hand. When our flesh touched, the E on my palm burned like fire, and I took in a hissing breath. It was the first pain I’d felt since I died.

  “Hello, Mr. Richter,” Edrigu said in that eerie voice of his. “It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance. You are, after all, a unique specimen among my charges.” He smiled with cold amusement. “By the way, my driver says you taste absolutely delicious.”

  I withdrew my hand. Edrigu’s comment had rattled me-not to mention the burning sensation-and I quickly tried to cover. “You’re a Darklord, Edrigu. You’d think you’d be able to afford some skin to cover those ribs.”

  Edrigu just smiled, his eyes cold as a tomb in deep winter. I turned away, unable to meet that awful gaze. The burning in my hand was mostly gone, but a distant echo of its pain lingered.

  Devona went up to Galm and hesitantly touched his bare ivory arm. “Father, we must talk. It’s urgent!

  Up to now, Galm had been brooding and not paying attention to the conversation. But when Devona spoke, he looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten she were here. “Not now, child. We received bad news at the Cathedral while you were out. Varma died the final death earlier today.”

  “I know, father,” Devona said softly. “Matt and I found his body.”

  The other Lords fell silent and awaited Galm’s reaction. Keket seemed especially interested, which only made sense since she represented what passed for the law in Nekropolis. I half expected Galm to destroy Devona and me where we stood, but instead the ancient vampire spoke softly in a voice thick with restrained anger. “Tell me what you know.”

  Devona hesitated, and then launched into a concise summary of everything that had happened since she’d discovered the Dawnstone was missing.

  After she was done, the ice on Lord Galm’s glacially impassive face broke and his features contorted in fury. “Varma was a weak, immature man who existed only for pleasure. If the Dominari hadn’t introduced him to veinburn, he would have tried it on his own eventually. But if had you come to me immediately, child, I might have been able to locate Varma and use my magics to burn the addiction out of him, quite possibly preventing his assassination.” He shot Varvara a meaningful look, and I imagined the two of them were going to have a few conversations about the drug trade in Varvara’s Dominion not long after the ceremony.

  “But you let your pride as keeper of my Collection interfere with your duty to your cousin-who was fully Bloodborn, I might add.”

  Devona hung her head in shame. “Yes, my Lord.”

  I wanted to shout at Galm, to tell him he was being unnecessarily cruel-not to mention just plain wrongheaded-to talk to Devona like he had. But I knew that despite my watering hole analogy, the Darklords’ truce didn’t extend to me, and I had to watch what I said.

  “My Lord,” I said, nearly choking on the words, “what about the Dawnstone?” I hoped this would distract him from berating Devona and also turn his attention to the most important aspect of her story: that whoever stole the Dawnstone likely planned to attack with it during the Renewal Ceremony.

  But I was surprised by his response.

  “It is of no consequence.”

  “No consequence!” I said. “I thought it was an object of great power!”

  “It is,” Galm admitted, “but one which takes much mystic knowledge and skill to operate. Such attributes are possessed only by my fellow Lords.”

  “And we would never use such a device,” Edrigu said. “Not during the Renewal Ceremony.”

  “Edrigu’s right,” Amon said. “It would be one thing to employ the Dawnstone against each other outside of the Nightspire, but to use it here and risk Dis’s wrath? Never.”

  “Not to mention what the effect of using an object of power would have on the ceremony itself,” Talaith said. “We need Dis, and all five of us, to maintain Nekropolis. If the ceremony were interrupted before completion, Umbriel would fail to be renewed.”

  “And Nekropolis, and all its denizens, would be no more,” Edrigu finished. “There’d be nothing left to rule over.”

  “Besides,” Talaith pointed out, “there’s no way anyone could sneak such a powerful artifact into the Nightspire, not with the powerful wardspells Father Dis has placed on the entrances.”

  “It’s far more likely the Dominari have different-but no less nasty-plans for it,” Amon said. “But that need not concern us at the moment.”

  I looked to Varvara for confirmation. “They’ve got a good point,” she told me. “Several, in fact.”

  It sounded as if the other Lords had managed to convince Varvara. And truth to tell, what they said did seem reasonable. But that didn’t mean I bought it. My undead gut told me that despite all the Darklords’ arguments to the contrary, whoever had the Dawnstone would use it here, soon. But if the Darklords didn’t believe us, I didn’t know what we’d be able to do about it.

  Evidently, Devona felt the same, too, for she said, “Father, please, y
ou must-”

  “Forget the Dawnstone,” Galm said, icy reserve in place once more. “It is no longer any of your concern, for you are no longer keeper of my Collection.”

  Devona stared at her father in stunned disbelief.

  “You have failed me and failed Varma. From now on you are cast out from the Bloodborn; you are no longer my daughter. Do not return to the Cathedral. If you do, I shall kill you.” And with that, Galm turned and strode away.

  Devona’s eyes filled with tears which she fought desperately. Her hands clamped into fists so tight, her nails punctured the flesh of her palms and blood dripped from her wounds. She was shaking in both sorrow and anger. She opened her mouth-to call after Galm, I presume-but no words came. No matter what she might have said, I knew it wouldn’t have helped. Lord Galm had rendered his judgment, and I doubted even Father Dis could get him to reverse it.

  I put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder. I wanted to say something to console her, but it was my turn to be unable to find the right words. Everything that had defined her existence and her very identity for her entire life-seventy-three years-had been stripped away from her in mere moments.

  I suppose I should have also been concerned that I’d lost my chance to gain Lord Galm’s aid in staving off my final decay. But you know something? The thought didn’t even occur to me.

  Edrigu, Amon, and Talaith wandered off, the latter looking quite pleased with the way things had turned out. Keket-who, I’d noticed, had stayed out of the debate over the Dawnstone-gave us a last look before trailing after the four Darklords, her dog-headed servants in tow. Varvara remained with us, though I wasn’t sure why.

  And that’s when a gong sounded, though there was none in the room to be seen, and through a doorway on the other side of the room entered a handsome man dressed in a dark purple toga.

  Father Dis.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Everything stopped-the music, the conversation-and everyone turned toward Dis and slowly went down on bended knees. I don’t mind showing someone respect, provided they earn it. But the idea of paying homage to a person I’d never meant as if he were royalty-even if in Nekropolis he was-really grated. Still, I knelt along with the others, though I gritted my teeth while doing so.

  Dis strode into the chamber with the easy confidence of someone who is lord of all he surveys and doesn’t feel a need to make a big deal out of it. He paused for a moment, smiled, and then gestured for us to stand. Everyone complied, but they remained silent, watching Father Dis and waiting for their next cue.

  Dis wasn’t what I had expected. There was nothing monstrous about him at all. He stood over six feet, had short curly black hair, a large but distinguished-looking nose, and a relaxed, charming smile. This was the ultimate Lord of Nekropolis? He looked more like an Italian movie star.

  He walked through the crowd, smiling and nodding to those he passed, stopping once or twice to shake someone’s hand (or paw or claw). And then he continued walking-straight toward us.

  When he reached us, he stopped and flashed that smile of his. “Varvara, how lovely to see you, as always.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. His voice was a mellow tenor, but with an odd accent I couldn’t quite place.

  “My Lord,” Varvara said solemnly, all trace of the shallow, fashion-crazed party-girl persona she affected gone.

  Dis released her hand and turned to Devona and me. “I see we have two new guests this evening. Charmed, Ms. Kanti.” He kissed Devona’s hand, and she just watched him, flustered. “Mr. Richter.”

  I held up my gray-skinned hand. “If you’re going to kiss my hand too, I have to warn you, it’s seen better days.” I couldn’t help it; I’m even more of a smart aleck than usual when I’m nervous.

  Dis chuckled. “I’ve seen far worse in my time, Mr. Richter, believe me.” And then the pupils in his warm brown eyes dilated, becoming windows to a darkness deeper and colder than anything I had ever imagined. His pupils returned to normal and he shook my hand. “So glad you two could make it tonight. I hope it shall turn out to be a memorable experience for you both.”

  And with that he left us and walked toward the pentagram-shaped dais. “The time is nigh!” he called out in a commanding voice, the charming host gone, replaced by the Lord of the City. “Let us begin!”

  He mounted the dais steps and climbed to the top, and passed through the ring of Sentinels. He took a position in the center of the pentagram and waited. The five Darklords, including Varvara, then joined him, each standing on the point of the pentagram which corresponded to the location of their stronghold in the city, facing Father Dis.

  I half expected dramatic music to swell as Dis and the Darklords raised their arms above their heads, but the chamber was silent, the air charged with anticipation. Everyone stood gathered around the dais, watching, waiting. Dis chanted no harsh, multisyllabic words of magic, made no complicated mystic gestures. All he did was simply look upward-and the Nightspire began to open.

  As if it were an ebon flower curling back its nightdark petals, the tip of Nightspire blossomed open to reveal Umbriel. The shadowsun hovered huge and heavy in the eternal night of Nekropolis’s sky, its hue no longer pure black but now shot through with patches of gray. It seemed to sag in the sky, as if weary and barely able to keep itself aloft.

  The Darklords lowered their hands until they were pointing at Dis. And then gouts of darkness blasted forth from their palms to engulf him in a turbulent, writhing shroud of shadow. Dis inhaled, drawing the darkness into him as if it were air, and then, with the Lords continuing to feed him with their shadow, Dis l owered his arms, threw back his head, and opened his mouth wide.

  A torrent of darkness surged upward from deep within the being that called itself Father Dis, spiraling up through the interior of the Nightspire, geysering forth from the opening, and streaking across the starless sky toward Umbriel. The stygian bolt struck the shadowsun, feeding, restoring, renewing it. As we watched, the patches of gray began to shrink, and Umbriel seemed to grow stronger and more vital. It was a wonder to behold. A dark wonder, yes, but a wonder just the same.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of movement on the dais. One of the Sentinels-the one I’d recognized earlier, with the scar on its chest-was stirring. It moved its thick-fingered hands to theline of puckered flesh, plunged them into the skin, and pulled open its chest. It reached into the cavity and brought forth a crystal a bit larger than a man’s fist.

  The Dawnstone.

  I understood in a flash how the artifact had been smuggled past the Nightspire’s wardspells. Concealed within a Sentinel, one of Dis’s own guards, it hadn’t tripped any of the mystic protections.

  Some of the others in the audience had noticed the Sentinel’s actions, and were shouting and pointing. If the Darklords and Dis were aware of what was happening, they gave no sign. The Lords continued pumping Dis full of darkness, and he in turn continued feeding it upward into Umbriel.

  The Sentinel cupped the Dawnstone in its hands, and a warm yellow glow began to suffuse the crystal.

  “It’s activating the stone!” Devona shouted. “But that’s impossible! A Sentinel is a golem, a mystic automaton without a mind of its own! It can’t work magic!”

  The Dawnstone’s glow was getting brighter.

  “Well, this one can!” I said.

  People were shouting to the Lords, trying to get their attention, but it was no use. Whether the Lords couldn’t hear or couldn’t afford to be distracted at this point in the ceremony, they didn’t respond. Neither, for that matter, did the other Sentinels, who remained motionless on the dais. Maybe they too were somehow part of the ceremony, or perhaps they needed Dis to command them to action. Whichever the case, they stood by, useless.

  Dis’s red-robed attendants, the Cabal, dropped their serving trays and rushed toward the rogue Sentinel, their hands flaring with crimson energy. But the Sentinel merely pointed the Dawnstone at the oncoming attendants. A d
azzling lance of white light blazed forth from the crystal and washed over the Cabal. They didn’t even have time to scream. One second they were there, the next they were gone. Not even dust remained.

  A number of the Darklords’ guests-the vampires especially-fell to the floor, crying and moaning in pain, injured from merely witnessing the release of the Dawnstone’s awesome power. Keket managed to remain on her cloth-wrapped feet, but she’d averted her eyes, unable to face the Dawnstone’s luminance. Her Warders huddled behind her, whining like terrified dogs. Everyone else either stood in mute fear or was trying to escape the chamber. No one headed for the Sentinel, which was slowly starting to turn around to face Dis and the Darklords.

  It looked like it was up to the dead man. I drew my 9mm, aimed at the Sentinel’s head, and squeezed off three shots.

  I wasn’t the world’s greatest marksman when alive, but death has given me a much steadier hand, and my shots hit their intended target. But I might as well not have bothered; the bullets merely scratched the Sentinel’s doughy gray flesh.

  I decided to try a different target and fired three more shots at the Dawnstone. Because of the way the crystal was glowing, it was hard to tell if I hit it, but I believed I did. But instead of being rewarded with the sound of shattering magic crystal, nothing happened.

  “I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy,” I muttered as I pulled out the spent clip and replaced it with a fresh one.

  The Sentinel completed its turn and aimed the Dawnstone at Father Dis and, along with the five bolts of darkness still blasting into him from the Darklords, a stream of white light struck him full on the chest. The shadow streaming forth from Dis’s mouth cut off as the Lord of Nekropolis screamed.

  Take all the pain in the universe, not just physical pain, but all the mental and emotional anguish you can imagine. Put them all together, double, triple, quadruple them, and you still wouldn’t match the intensity of the agony in Father Dis’s cry.

  And then the ground began to shake, as if the Nightspire shared its master’s anguish. I wondered if the disturbance was localized to Dis’s island, or if the entire city experienced the tremors. I feared the latter.