The thunderwyrm writhed in pain below the earth. Her slow death throes shook the desert floor.
Zhyzhak screamed in frustration. She flung rocks across the sandy desert, smashing them into ancient stone outcroppings and exploding them to dust. The mica deposits sparkled in the full moon gleam like antiaircraft flak, flickering briefly before settling on the canyon floor.
Slatescrape-ikthya bit his lip in frustration, holding back an acerbic comment. Zhyzhak’s screaming wasn’t unusual—she was a klazomaniac, after all, gifted during her first Wyrm revelation with the screaming affliction. When she was angry or frustrated, she had to yell at the top of her lungs anytime she wanted to say something. It took enormous effort of will during these spells to speak in a normal voice or even a whisper. This wasn’t a conscious oath or vow of piety; it was her only way of dealing with the awesome trauma the Wyrm had inflicted on her mind. They all had such glorious stigmata, psychoses worn like combat badges. Pain, hurt and affliction were borne as pridefully as battle scars by the Wyrm’s chosen tribe, those who danced the Black Spiral Labyrinth.
Slatescrape himself had his own divine problems: the festering sores that bled pus and caused such infernal itching in his hindquarters, in addition to the constant insufferable runny nose and sweating. He rubbed his bottom violently as he watched Zhyzhak’s midnight tantrum. She wore her usual black leather dominatrix outfit—at least two sizes too small for her frame—while he wore his worsted wool jacket and pants, squinting at her through spectacles fogged by watery eyes. An uninformed human might mistake him for a professor, perhaps one of the many nuclear scientists known to work in the region. Once, this wouldn’t have been a completely mistaken assumption; He had been a scientist—a biologist, not a physicist—in his previous life when he counted himself among the Glass Walkers tribe. That was long ago, however, before Grammaw devoured him and excreted him inside an egg. He had hatched from its slimy womb, reborn in a warped but corruption-blessed body.
Grammaw. The thunderwyrm.
“If you’re so damn smart, " Zhyzhak screamed at Slatescrape, lifting a huge rock above her head, “why can’t you fix her?!" She threw the rock over Slatescrape's shoulder. It shattered against the canyon wall, its dust coating the back of his jacket. He didn’t flinch.
“I’ve told you before, you bitch, ” Slatescrape said, knowing she would interpret the vulgar appellation as a sign of respect, “her disease is spiritual, not biological. No one knows more about thunderwyrm anatomy than 1, and there is no physical affliction. She wastes away because of some Umbral assault on her soul. ”
Zhyzhak leaped over a group of mangled rocks to stand inches from Slatescrape’s face, breathing her rancid breath up his nose. “Yaargh! You’re a shaman! Fix it! ”
“For the thousandth time, I can’t. This is White-Eye-ikthya’s doing. He’s laid some sort of curse, and I can’t even detect it. ”
“Traitor! " Zhyzhak cried, screaming not at Slatescrape but out across the desert, to wherever White-Eye might be hiding. The ancient werewolf was legendary among the Black Spiral Dancer tribe for the vision he had been granted at the Trinity nuclear explosion, the blast that had stolen his sight, gifting him with great insight into the mysteries of the Wyrm and earning him the honorific suffix -ikthya. But White-Eye had disappeared recently. Soon after that, Grammaw took ill. Many in the caern whispered that White-Eye s true allegiance still lay with his old Garou tribe, the Uktena, and took his disappearance to be a defection back to his first tribe. Slatescrape doubted that. He suspected that whatever force had taken White-Eye had also wounded Grammaw.
“The point is not who did it, ” Slatescrape said, his nose wrinkling under the withering assault of Zhyzhak’s breath, “but when are you going to quit yelling about it and go to Malfeas! ”
Zhyzhak stood stock still, not breathing. Slatescrape knew she was conflicted, unsure whether to loose her rage and strike him down or actually do the long-contemplated deed, to travel to the spiritual heart of the Wyrm and seek relief for the thunderwyrm’s suffering. Luckily for him, she chose the latter.
Zhyzhak whirled around and marched back to the cave in the canyon gully, toward the caern within. Slatescrape smiled, proud of himself and somewhat surprised that she actually had the balls to go through with it. Where she was going, there would be no return. Soon, the caern would he his. He followed behind her, crouching to enter the cave.
Zhyzhak shifted to her wolf form, a black-furred mongrel. As the cavern widened on all sides, she retained that form while following the winding path downwards. Finally, she reached a point where the cavern narrowed, with rows of symmetrical stalactites and stalagmites. Warm gases came from deep within, and nothing of the faint light from the cave entrance made its way here. Zhyzhak moved by sense of smell and sound alone, but Slatescrape’s Wynn-enhanced eyes could see dim shapes through a sickly green haze. Beyond the up-jutting and under-hanging rocks, the floor was slick and wet.
The large wolf paused and seemed to collect her thoughts. Then she lunged forward on all fours, charging past the rows of rocks and disappearing into the blackness. Slatescrape hoped she would fail to step over to the Other Side in time, but he knew that was unlikely. That had been the fate of Ghavaaldt, the previous caern leader, although many knew of Zhyzhak’s role in that event. It was no accident that she was now leader.
He paused now himself and reached out with his senses, seeking the ephemeral fabric of the spirit world. He grasped it and pulled himself into its folds, struggling past the hot veil between worlds and emerging into an even darker, steamier cavern, the spiritual reflection of the material world.
He smiled. He always liked this next part. It felt like entering the womb again. He marched past the stalactites and stalagmites, running his hand against them as he went, thrilling to their bony, calcified texture. He wiggled to maintain his balance as he hit the slick spot and it undulated underneath him, pulling him in deeper, a magic carpet ride on Grammaw’s tongue straight into her esophagus. It was a religious experience to walk boldly into her mouth and straight into her gut, to experience all the banes writhing within, to ride her innards from stomach to gizzard, through the intestinal labyrinth and then to the stomodaeal plexus—Grammaw’s brain, the center of the Trinity Hive Caern.
He knew Grammaw’s anatomy better than anyone, even Zhyzhak. He was sure he could find shortcuts through the intestines and beat her to the caern center, and so prepare his allies to seize the caern as soon as Zhyzhak was gone.
• • •
Zhyzhak already knew of Slatescrape’s plotting and didn’t care. If anything, she was glad that someone as Machiavellian as Slatescrape would assume leadership of her beloved caern. Somebody needed to keep the larvae in line. She had already warned her loyal soldiers that Slatescrape would attempt a bid for power the moment she left on her journey. What was power worth if you didn’t have to fight to get it? She couldn’t allow a true leader to assume command without the scars to show for it.
But such concerns were petty next to the greater need to cure Grammaw. Zhyzhak had realized that weeks ago. She pretended to procrastinate, delaying her necessary journey, so that she could secretly build weapons, for she would need more than her wits and spirit gifts where she was going. It had taken her weeks and the sacrifice of her most loyal soldier (whom the others believed had been killed by Wendigo warriors), but now she had her fetish, the one thing that would allow her to succeed where all others before her had failed.
She tumbled through the thunderwyrm s gut, barely avoiding the molten blood in the veins as she shot through the viscera at
incredible speed. She flicked her tongue in her wolfish mouth, making sure that the small fetish was still there, tied to her back teeth. It was. It rubbed against her throat, almost causing her to gag now and then, but that was a small price to pay for the secrecy she needed. If any of the Wyrm s minions suspected what she had, they would try to seize it for themselves. She barked loudly as she imagined the looks on the faces of the Maeljin lords when they realized that they’d have to bow down to her, the Queen and Bride of the Wynn itself.
As she was painfully squeezed through the gizzard, she shifted to the Crinos battle form. Her increased size would slow her, but she needed the extra power to withstand the grinding stones that tried to crush her into powder for her entry into the intestines. If she had been traveling through Grammaw in the material world, rather than its spiritual reflection, she would have been dead ten times over by now. Like poor Ghavaaldt.
She cautiously turned her thoughts to other matters, intentionally thinking about how she would flay White-Eye-ikthya alive. There were certain spirits and minions who could read minds, and she didn’t want to risk them picking up her thoughts about her secret fetish. She contemplated the painful howls the old man would choke out as she slowly chewed his still-attached sinew like licorice.
As she entered the intestines, she purposefully reached out and grabbed a handful of slick, fecal-smeared flesh, pulling herself down a side-tunnel. She heard Slatescrape slide past behind her, hurrying to beat her to the caern center. Let him. Once he was past, she let go and let Grammaw’s peristalsis take her wherever it wanted to. After an eternity of foul smells and the caress of hogling banes, she flopped greasily into the vast cavern of neural flesh that made up the caern center.
Her waiting soldiers, the elite caern guardians, immediately rushed to help her to her feet and surround her, growling at the other Garou gathered there. Zhyzhak kicked them away, rising on her own as she brushed off swaths of feces. She marched to the center and screamed at her broodlings.
“Listen up, scum! I’m going to Malfeas! I’ll dance the Spiral, and no goddamn banes or bullshit excuses will stop me! Hear?! Anybody got something to say?! ”
She looked around. Slatescrape, who had arrived while she still tumbled through Grammaw’s labyrinthine intestines, stood at the periphery, trying to be as unassuming as possible. She could see a few other Garou, also at the edge of the congregation, trading knowing glances. Slatescrape’s conspirators. She slapped Mange-Breath, her lead guardian, on the back, a powerful blow that almost caused him to lose his balance.
“Mange-Breath’s in charge while I’m gone! Hear?! Anybody got a problem with that, take it up with me now! ”
Slatescrape remained silent, as did his fellows. He would wait until she was gone before making his move. Good. Mange-Breath was a tough-ass warrior, but stupid. Slatescrape, if he was smart, which he was, would use his fellows to take him down, and then declare his leadership. His Wyrmish gifts would ensure that nobody else here would overcome him, but he’d have scars to remind him of it. His reign would be short-lived anyway; when she returned, she’d have them all killed.
Zhyzhak turned and walked over to a whitish lump rolling around on the floor. She kicked it and two eyes opened, looking up at her with fear. A mouth opened and closed, mewling sounds escaping from it. The thing slowly stood up on what passed for limbs: white doughy balloons barely capable of holding his obese weight.
“Palefish! Open the gate! Now! "
The albino metis croaked a reply and began the procedures for opening a moon bridge. He knew where she was going, so he didn’t need to ask. A few minutes later, the portal appeared, its silvery light too bright for most of the Garou s eyes. Only the faint balefire in Grammaw's veins and the occasional electrical firing of the thunderwyrm’s neurons usually lit the cavern.
Zhyzhak didn’t look back as she stormed through the portal, ready to fight what challenges waited at her destination—one didn’t enter the realm of the Green Dragon without a challenge. Even before the portal closed behind her, she could hear the howls of battle and the wet tearing sound of claws slicing flesh. As it should be....
• • •
The infernal hissing of a billion snakes made it hard to concentrate. Zhyzhak made her way by touch and smell through the tight, din-encrusted pit. The heat was nearly unbearable even for her, but her overcooked brain shrugged it off and kept her body stumbling forward. She could feel fangs sinking into her flesh with each step, their venom jetting through her bloodstream, but her superior Garou constitution nullified the poison. Every now and then she stopped to vomit up the inert toxins, and then stumbled on, suffering still more snake bites.
Finally, she felt a breeze and smelled the hot, tepid scent of a brackish marsh. She quickened her step and soon slipped from the tight tunnel into the welcoming embrace of a stagnant pool. Instantly, insects swarmed her, covering nearly every inch of her fur. It felt like a massage compared to the snakes. She moved sluggishly forward in the water, brushing aside wilting vines and snapping rotten logs with her stride.
Swamp gases engulfed her, killing the insects. In the split-second it took them to die, she heeded the warning and held her breath until the noxious fumes passed her by.
Zhyzhak felt something brush against her legs, something slimy and scaled, and she smiled. She opened her eyes, still stinging from the insect bites, and looked down. Through the murk, she could see the bulk of a dinosaur-huge tail disappearing to her left. She followed it, splashing through the mire with no care to what creatures she disturbed.
The tail led her to a clearing, a grassy knoll in the mists, upon which sat a huge, coiled bulk of green scales. Near the top of the small mountain of its body, she saw a single open, reptilian eye watching her.
Zhyzhak dropped to her knees in the water, her legs swallowed by mud. She closed her eyes and presented her throat to the creature. Its head slowly lifted, revealing a huge, hundred-fanged snout frilled with black feathers. Its head floated across the water toward Zhyzhak and hovered next to her face, sniffing her. It opened its mouth and two monstrous fangs slid from their sheaths, dripping acidic venom. The black poison splattered onto her fur and singed it, hurting more than anything she had ever experienced.
The bums formed shapes, pictograms spelling some blasphemous secret that even she could not read, but she knew she had been marked. She had passed the test. The Green Dragon favored her.
It slid back to its coiled mass and buried its head once more, appearing to sleep. Behind it, the faint flickering of light signaled the portal it had opened for her. She shifted to her prehistoric dire-wolf form and leaped over the dragon and through the portal before it could change its mind.
• • •
She landed with a skid on dusty flagstones. The stones cracked under her sudden bulk, sending loud echoes across the open, gray sky. She halted and listened. In the distance from all directions she heard various sounds: moans of terror and pain, screams of horror and delight, and the crack of whips or the clank of gears. But they didn’t respond to her arrival.
She looked around the ruined courtyard. It looked like an ancient, long-abandoned medieval fortress. The walls stretched at least 18 feet high, and she could not see over the battlements. She knew that beyond each of the octagonal courtyard’s walls, each of which bore a large iron door, a unique Malfean duchy could be found. None of them were her destination.
She shifted to her battle form—her head that of a wolf, her body a huge, hulking, furred humanoid—and dug her claws into the clefts in the masonry, climbing up one of the walls. When she could peer over it, she looked about in all directions, searching for one place in particular. The smoky haze of many fires, coupled with the black clouds blocking the sun (or whatever passed for the sun in this infernal realm), concealed much of the view. But she could see her destination: a huge, slender tower of green-veined black marble, jutting into the sky like a barbed arrow from a wound in the Earth. The Temple Obscura, home to the Black Spir
al Labyrinth.
Zhyzhak moved slowly along the side of the wall, peering over the battlements to examine the stony maze on all sides. She saw the passage she wanted and the route needed to get there, and then dropped from the wall, heading for the west gate.
It was different from the last time she had been here. It was different every time. Once, the place looked new, as if it were still well maintained. Another time, it appeared somewhat Asian, as if she were in a different land. Now, she suspected she saw something of its true face.
She reached for the door-latch and tugged the metal ring, hauling it with all her strength. The door groaned and resisted, but slid open a crack, with a great grinding noise that echoed everywhere. They’d know she was here now; the curious would come to investigate. She dropped to all fours, still in her battle form, and ran through the maze, remembering the way from her reconnoitered climb.
When she reached the corridor that led to the temple, she found a parasitic crow waiting there for her. It cawed as she approached and shifted into human form. This surprised her; she had not expected to find one of the Corax changing breed here in Malfeas. They were servants of Helios, the Sun, and did not belong in these gray lands. This one must be a renegade, corrupted and pledged to one of the dreaded Dukes of Malfeas.
“What do you want, Crow Boy?! ” she cried, refusing to stop as she ran past him.
He ran along behind her. “Hey, lady, no need to be hostile. I’m just curious about that shiny thing I see in your mouth. ”
Zhyzhak wheeled around without breaking her stride and snapped her fangs at the Corax’s throat. He was quick but not quick enough. She tore out his jugular and slashed his knees with her rear claws. He gurgled some sort of surprised apology, but the light went out of his eyes and he collapsed.
She turned and kept moving. She didn’t know how the little bastard had seen the fetish in her mouth— those crows had good eyes and a knack for seeing sparkling objects—but she didn’t want to risk something truly threatening standing in her way, so speed was of the essence now. She bolted faster down the corridor, the temple a distant smudge at the end.
World of Darkness - [Time of Judgment 02] - The Last Battle Page 1