by Jack Conner
Suddenly, a voice called loudly:
“CITIZENS AND TRAVELERS, WELCOME TO THE COURT OF THE GREAT LORD.”
Avery saw the speaker, and his heart sped up. The robed man stood on a circular platform, an arena really, that crowned a huge stalagmite mountain, in what must be the very center of the city. The population of Cuithril had gathered on the terraces and platforms of the many spires all around, shoving and jostling on the tiered levels, staring out across the clearing around the black tooth to the strange arena-like platform that topped it, which must be fifty or sixty feet across. Torches burned along the arena’s circumference, casting hellish light on the speaker. Avery frowned to see black robes and a cowl.
“PREPARE TO BEHOLD THE SPLENDOR OF HE WHO HAS COME TO DELIVER US!” spoke the robed man, surely a priest, into a bullhorn. His voice rang out metallically, echoing off the buildings and stalagmites so that the last word of each sentence was staggered. “ALL HAIL ... THE GREAT LORD!”
The crowed buzzed and shouted. Movement came from overhead.
A great, carved stalactite hung directly above the arena. Like some fantastic castle tipped upside down, its towers stretched down, their tips crystal globes glowing from lights within. On the lowest (tallest) and most central tower, the one that depended directly over the arena, there was activity. A terrace jutted from the crystal globe of the lowest level of the tower, the one nearest the arena. A tall figure draped in shadow emerged from the interior.
The murmuring of the crowd increased. “The Great One!” some whispered. “Hail him!” Calling out their love for the figure, some dropped to their knees and prayed. Others looked sullen and kept their silence.
The figure stepped forward, and the enthusiasm of the crowd increased tenfold. Thousands cried out their love, and the figure raised its arms as if to allow the crowd to bask in its presence. Cries and chants and fist-poundings echoed off the walls and mountains.
Avery felt his sweat turn cold.
After a moment, he turned to Janx. The whaler’s eyes blazed.
Avery turned back.
The figure above, the Great Lord, had stepped from the shadow into the light. Torch-light fell over him now, glinting on his scales, on his crested head, on his huge, muscular chest criss-crossed with scars.
Muirblaag grinned and drank in the worship of the crowd.
* * *
Layanna let out a long breath and leaned against Avery.
“So that’s how he did it,” she said.
“What?” he said, still stunned. “What ... ?”
“Don’t you see? Uthua beat us here.”
“Gods damn,” Hildra said, though whether in response to Layanna or not Avery couldn’t tell. She just seemed dazed.
Janx’s glare speared the figure above as if he could do Muirblaag injury with only his eyes. He just about could, Avery thought. At last Janx said, through clenched teeth, “How?”
“It’s not Muirblaag anymore,” Layanna said. “It’s Uthua, the Mnuthra I fought in the Borghese. He’s old and powerful, though he’d let his human self fade. I sensed a change in him, but I didn’t think ... I didn’t know he could ...” She took a breath. “Somehow he was able to anchor his extra-planar self in your friend. To put it simply, he’s possessed Muirblaag.”
Janx’s jaw muscles bunched.
Hildra squeezed his shoulder. To Layanna, she said, “So what’s ... Uthua doing here?”
“Waiting for me. Our minds touched, and I believe he discovered our plan to reach the altar.”
“Shit.” Idly Hildra stroked her monkey, whose gaze was also fixed on Muirblaag. His eyes looked very round.
“Our search is over, anyway,” Avery said, pointing to the palatial upside-down building Muirblaag—Uthua—apparently occupied. “That must be the temple. The altar will be in there.”
“Yes,” said Layanna.
“Oh, no,” Hildra said. “You can’t mean what I think you do.”
The announcer called again. Shouting through the bullhorn, his voice echoing metallically off the walls, he said, “WE HAVE SPLENDID NEWS, CITIZENS OF CUITHRIL. MOMENTARILY WE EXPECT POWERFUL ALLIES TO ARRIVE AND PAY HOMAGE TO OUR MASTER. WHILE WE AWAIT THEM, LET US HONOR HIM OURSELVES.” He stepped aside, into a small lowered area of the arena fenced by spiked iron posts.
Before the gate had even latched, Uthua leapt down from the terrace of his temple onto the arena. He wore a cape, scarlet and embroidered with a gold pattern, and it fluttered behind him. He landed gracefully, the cape folding neatly about him, and the crowd shouted their adulations. He raised his arms and grinned, showing sharp teeth.
Almost as soon as he lowered his arms, trapdoors burst open in the arena floor, and lurching figures stormed out. These were the familiar mutants of the tunnels. The ferals. They seemed much the same as the citizens of the city, save for tribal tattoos and scars. They were armed with spears and swords, nets and maces. They blinked around them, their backs hunched, their teeth bared, until their gazes settled on Muirblaag.
They threw back their heads, howled in fury, and rushed him.
Muirblaag let them come. When they were almost upon him, he moved. With grace and power, he dodged a thrust spear, stepped around a slicing sword, caught a net and flung it back, ensnaring two mutants. The ones that were still loose stumbled, disoriented. Tried to regroup. He leapt, tearing at them with inhuman strength. He twisted the head off one, ripped the arms off another. His clawed talons disemboweled a third.
And, as the blood sprayed, he drank it up. Even as the bodies flopped at his feet, he knelt over them ... and fed.
Disgust filled Avery. He wasn’t the only one, either. All around him, citizens of Cuithril looked dark and sullen. They glanced at Uthua, then away. Some wept. The majority, however, roared out their love and worship. Even as Uthua crouched among splintered bodies and ropes of intestine, tearing into them like some starved wolf, gulping down the still-warm remains of people he had slaughtered, blood spattering his face and chest, trickling over his fish-like lips, the crowd cheered. At last, gorged and covered in blood, Uthua rose to his feet, a bit unsteadily. Drunken.
More trapdoors opened. A new tide of mutants streamed out. These were not armed, and they did not appear to be ferals. By their clothes, their more sane demeanors and lack of tribal markings, Avery judged them to be citizens of the city—and by the looks of hate they cast at Muirblaag, he realized something else.
“Dissenters,” he said. “This must be what he does with those that don’t like his rule.”
The quiet citizens of the city, those that didn’t seem to appreciate the spectacle, turned even more ashen. Possibly the dissenters were their friends. If nothing else, they were their fellows in suffering.
The newcomers on the arena spread in a circle around Uthua. Some shook in fear. All looked pale and terrified. They knew they were going to their deaths. Nevertheless, they decided to make a go of it. Surprising Avery, they advanced on Uthua in a coordinated strike, howling as they came.
He didn’t toy with them.
Newly gorged, he changed. A dark, gelatinous form erupted from within him, superimposed over him, and expanded, filling up half the arena, a great black mountain fringed in tentacles and bristling with ungainly limbs. Thrusting pseudopods reared up and crushed attacking mutants, and dark tendrils wrapped around others, stinging them and killing them. Their screams filled the air, along with the otherworldly sounds and smells of the Mnuthra. The very fabric of reality seemed to bend and rip to accommodate him. The air blurred, and shapes that should appear solid were not. Strange lights flashed from the being’s interior.
And still the crowd cheered. Here at last was a god that did not need to be sacrificed to. He would take his own.
Not all seemed so enthusiastic, and Avery noticed one group nearby looking particularly furious. They’ll do. Hoping this wasn’t a mistake, he approached them.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not from here,” he said, trying to express
an awed sort of concern, “and I was wondering, well—how long has the Great Lord been here? I didn’t know there was such a ruler in Cuithril, but ...” He gestured vaguely toward the arena.
“How long does a god need?” one young man said with a sneer.
Another said, more gently, “A couple of weeks.”
They studied Avery, and he tried not to appear suspicious-looking—whatever that might look like here. Keep your eyes steady. In picture shows, shifty eyes generally denoted a traitor. On the other hand, Avery was counting on these men’s dislike of Uthua to provide him with information, so he couldn’t appear too naïve, either. He settled for a belligerent indifference.
“I don’t know where you’re from, buddy,” one of the fellows said, “but you must have heard the Call.”
“Yeah,” said another. “Uthua’s priests have been sent all over the Halls. Every city in the Underworld’s been given the word.”
“Oh. Yes,” Avery said. “I’ve heard it, certainly. The Call.” He considered. Looking around, he made sure no one else was in earshot, then said, “Listen, maybe you can help me. I’m trying to enter Uthua’s temple.” He saw their eyes fix on him and added hastily, “To, uh, pay him homage personally. I was sent from my town to greet him on behalf of our people and to pledge our loyalty to him. So ... how can I get in?” He made his voice sound incredulous, but with a hint of hope. “Are there ... secret ways? I’d like to avoid the mob. If you know what I mean.”
“Not trying anything untoward, are you?” one youth said, then laughed bitterly. “Have at it. But the only way in is through those three bridges that connect to it.”
Another youth said, “And the only ones who can cross them, other than the Lord, are his priests and sacrifices. The nobles have been sending him prisoners as ... gifts. To appease him. They ruled here before, and they’re afraid he’ll move against them to solidify his power.”
“There’s no resistance?” Avery said.
Anger flashed in their eyes, and he saw impotent frustration there. “How can you fight a god?” one snapped.
“We were raised to worship the Fathers and their gods,” another said. “Now one has come to us. But it’s not like the priests said it would be. You can’t know, stranger, all the terrible things we’ve seen. And heard. The rituals, the rapes, the disappearances ... the screams from the Temple. They’ve built strange machines there—to awaken the altar, they say—”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this in public,” another said.
The first youth swore. Without a backward look, he and his mates slipped away. Layanna, Janx and Hildra approached Avery.
“What now?” Janx said.
Avery started to speak, but shouts interrupted him.
“There! There they are!”
The voice had come from a platform overhanging the one they were on. A half dozen robed priests occupied the edge.
The leader pointed a gnarled finger at Avery. “Get them!”
* * *
Instantly a space cleared around Avery and the others. The mutants nearby looked bewildered and frightened. A few, those who had been most vocal in their support of Uthua, stepped forward to obey the priests. One man raised a wrench that he’d been carrying in a utility belt, looking about him for support. Finding it, he closed in on Avery and the others at the head of a handful of zealots.
Janx grabbed Avery by the shoulder and propelled him on. “Go go go!” the whaler said. Avery moved, and the crowd parted. Some made halfhearted efforts to clutch at him, but either Janx or Hildra quickly put an end to such notions, and the zealots fell behind.
“This is ... bad,” Layanna panted beside him. “With the temple—”
Uthua rose before them, eyes murderous, blocking off their path. How had he gotten around them so fast?
“Oh, fuck me,” said Hildra.
Uthua did not smile or gloat. His all-black eyes, glistening like black pearls just ripped from an oyster, stared at Layanna with grim sobriety. “Welcome to Cuithril,” he said.
Her lips thinned. She said nothing. Her eyes stared glassily at the thing that had once been Muirblaag, her back hunched and legs slightly bent, as if poised to flee or attack. Avery thought she looked like a rabbit in a trap.
Desperate, he glanced over his shoulder only to see Uthua’s priests, some carrying unfamiliar weapons, some guns, closing in from behind, eclipsing the mob. With a leaden feeling of dread, Avery returned his attention to Uthua, his stomach becoming acidic. Spots flickered and streaked before his eyes. This is it, he thought. We’ve lost. Gods damn it all, we’ve lost.
The Mnuthra had eyes only for Layanna, and for a long moment the two Collossum just stared at each other; Avery could feel the tension thicken the air, turn it into a string and twang it, violently, a guitar cord about to break. The crowd murmured in thrilled gasps and whispers, wisely drawing back from the confrontation. Somewhere bats chattered, and water dripped from ancient stalactites. A vague wind stirred the air, rustling Layanna’s hair.
Uthua’s all-black eyes no longer looked warm, as they had when their former owner had possessed them. They looked cruel and cold and monstrous, and a malice so deep it was palpable played across the fish-man’s features. And when Uthua spoke, he did not speak in Muirblaag’s comradely tones, but in the voice of one who believed himself a god worth sacrificing countless lives to. How many had he killed over the years? Thousands? Millions? Gods, Avery thought, it could be millions.
“We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Layanna,” Uthua said.
Layanna still said nothing. Perhaps fear had closed her throat.
“Surrender and it will go easier on you,” Uthua went on. “Either way, I need those plans. And I need to know the location of the Black Sect.”
“Then come and get them,” she said, and, sure enough, Avery could hear the strain in her voice. She knows she can’t win.
Uthua stepped forward.
Avery’s stomach clenched and he felt the blood drain from his face. Trembling, he put himself between Uthua and Layanna.
“No,” he said. “No.” It’s all he could say.
He felt Layanna’s hands on his shoulders firmly but insistently pushing him away. He dug in his heels. He knew she could move him if she wanted, but he hoped she would honor him with the dignity of a brave last stand.
In his ear, she whispered, “This is my battle, Francis.”
“Your battle is mine.”
Uthua’s other-self exploded outward, huge and gelatinous.
A dark tentacle seized Avery and lifted him up. Immediately fire filled him—venom. Alien, extradimensional venom. He screamed. He knew nothing else but pain. The rest of the world receded.
He felt himself hurled away. Breath exploded from his lungs as he struck the ground and slid. His groping hands slowed him before he could vanish over the side of the platform and into the abyss.
Gasping, he looked up, and light dazzled him.
Layanna had released her amoeba-self—the reason Uthua had freed himself of Avery so suddenly. Pink-limned pseudopods squirmed and roiled, tiny purplish fringes wriggling and straining like anemone. Long, clear jellyfish-like tentacles thrust and curled. Encased in her otherworldly self, Layanna lifted off the ground and floated.
The Mnuthra rushed her across the deck.
Layanna met him with a crash that Avery felt through his hands and the soles of his feet. Whitish tentacles lashed at dark, gelatinous material, and ripped away great chunks. Dark pseudopods rose high and slammed down on pink-purple flesh. Dark veins of ink-like substance ran from the points of impact through Layanna’s other-self. Black veins spiderwebbed her amoeba sac, intersected red and orange organelles, and the organelles withered.
Layanna plunged her tentacles deep inside the Mnuthra. Avery could see the effort on her face as she spent her strength, stinging Uthua, filling him with venom, perhaps seeking out the material host, Muirblaag, so that she could destroy it.
Uthua surged ar
ound her. Avery had seen before that he was the greater, the more powerful of the two, and he had only gotten stronger. As he glommed forward, he began to devour her, to roll over and around her. She slowly disappeared inside him. Pain and fear showed in her face.
Breathing heavily, his shoulder aching where he’d struck the ground, Avery forced himself to his feet. He slipped around the huge bulk which rippled just inches before him, looking for a weapon, something long and sharp. Perhaps ...
Layanna was all but swallowed. He could only see her here and there, through momentary partings of Uthua’s flesh. She seemed to have fallen unconscious and was floating downwards, eyes closed. Her jellyfish-white sac boiled away around her, devoured by the Mnuthra.
Janx, who’d been knocked to the floor, shook his head and staggered to his feet, pulling Hildra up with him. Avery joined them.
Before they could organize some sort of attack on Uthua, the Mnuthra’s priests converged and surrounded them.
“Don’t move,” one said.
By then it was over, anyway. Uthua emerged from his other-self and stood over Layanna’s unconscious form, his chest heaving, steam from her body rising around him. Avery’s heart lurched at the sight of her lying still like that, open and vulnerable, and for a moment he thought his knees would give out. If Janx hadn’t grabbed him just then, they probably would have.
“Take her to the Temple,” Uthua told his priests. “To the place prepared for her. When she’s given us what we need, I’ll send for her to be returned here, and present her to the High One.” Obeying, a group of the priests lifted her up and carried her away. Uthua’s gaze fell on Avery, Janx and Hildra—lingering on Avery. “You,” he said, after a thoughtful moment. “I remember ... yes, the trident.” He gave a small smile, showing needle teeth wet with saliva.