Path of the Renegade

by Andy Chambers

  +Shed no tears for Yllithian, he’s the one that brought you here in the first place. You and me, together, have made this abomination but he’s the one that made it all possible.+

  ‘Do try the haemovore cutlets at your table, they’ll go well with those pin-stars you were trying,’ El’Uriaq said to the departing Yllithian. When he was gone El’Uriaq glanced over at Laryin again, and raised his voice to speak to her over the tumult in the background.

  ‘Have Angevere tell you of her services to me in Shaa-dom. You will soon be emulating them,’ he said before turning away with a laugh. He went back to sit on his throne as a long-limbed, spidery-looking individual in a silvered skull-mask came forward and made obeisance.

  +It wears the shape of my lord well, doesn’t it? For now at least. Oh, but he’s close to his dark apotheosis. It could be tonight or it could be in a hundred years but he’s close.+

  +Then why did you stop me?+ Laryin thought. +I might have ended it.+

  The crone’s laughter rustled through her mind, dry and dead. +I thought you had become Morai-Heg? Weren’t you destined to succour your frightful offspring? Child! No assassin’s tool will end this, not even one supplied by a broken heart.+

  +What then! My life was forfeit, I accepted that. But when I saw it I knew… I knew that it had to be ended.+

  +Very good. You understand. There is a way if you are strong enough and clever enough. Shall I tell you what it is?+

  Laryin looked around, struggling to keep calm as the crone had told her to do. Knives were out in the amphitheatre, their savage caress eliciting piercing shrieks that merged with the infernal piping and pulsing drums. Writhing knots of figures swayed through coloured smoke, dancing and fighting and copulating in equal measure. All the worst legends of her people about the decadence before the Fall and the cruelty of the Dark Kin were being played out before her eyes.

  +Just tell me how I can end this.+

  The low, dry whisper of Angevere’s speech in her mind told her what she must do.

  Yllithian moved as artfully as he could towards the exit. The shape of the amphitheatre meant that El’Uriaq could see any part of it from his throne at the centre. If he were watching he might realise that Yllithian was trying to leave. Nyos slipped around groups, politely refused invitations, exchanged pleasantries and ignored challenges as he worked his way to the ramp leading out of the amphitheatre. He was finally stopped by a troupe of dancing Lhamaeans and their wide circle of onlookers barring his path. The sharp musk of their poisoned perfumes filled the air as their tattooed limbs flashed in a fantastic, gyrating display that held their slack-jawed audience enthralled. Beyond them Yllithian could see the ramp was filled with masked guards anyway. There was no way out there.

  He looked around casually, apparently busy fastidiously stripping the spicy flesh from a haemovore cutlet. El’Uriaq’s gastronomic advice at least seemed excellent; the blood-soaked meat nicely offset the jellied echinoderms he’d dined on earlier. El’Uriaq himself still sat upon his throne receiving supplicants in the midst of the feast, an island of light in the dark revelry surrounding him. To one side of him the veiled worldsinger stood like a pale flame, gripping the casket with the crone’s head. Yllithian experienced a moment of vertigo as he looked at her, the same sensation he’d had during the resurrection. He could almost feel reality straining. Eldritch voices seemed to be whispering and cackling at the edge of his consciousness. Something very bad was about to happen and he needed to get out before it was too late.

  The serving slaves and courtesans had not entered down the ramp as the guests had. There had to be other exits to the amphitheatre. Yllithian watched carefully and spotted three slaves bearing away a huge salver piled with gnawed bones. They slipped behind skin curtains to one side and did not return until a short time later with a new salver bearing a steaming heap of broiled limbs. Yllithian calmly started making his way over to the spot the slaves had emerged from.

  He could smell the heady scents of the kitchens when crashing drums and braying trumpets stopped him short of his goal. El’Uriaq was rising from his throne as the din in the amphitheatre was momentarily silenced by the savage fanfare. All eyes were drawn to him. The old emperor of Shaa-dom – or rather the thing that wore his flesh, as Yllithian now knew – gazed around triumphantly. His voice boomed through the amphitheatre with no artifice of personalisation for his listeners this time. This was the voice of a prophet addressing his believers.

  ‘My friends, the time has come to strip fear from your heart and cast aside veils of anonymity. We are bonded together in the single, unshakeable purpose of overthrowing the tyrant. Therefore those gathered here have nothing to fear from one another and so I bid you now to remove your masks.’

  An involuntary gasp rippled through the throng at the implication. Each of them would hold the lives of the others in their hands. Even one traitor in their midst could doom the whole conspiracy. Some threw off their masks joyfully, crying out their loyalty to El’Uriaq. Yllithian, like many others, was more reluctant but the implication was clear – anyone unwilling to remove their mask would stand revealed as just such a potential traitor. No doubt El’Uriaq was paying close heed to just who was quick and who was slow to obey him. It was a masterful stroke in its own way, self-preservation would enforce loyalty. Yllithian quickly removed his crow-mask before El’Uriaq thought to look in his direction.

  ‘There. Excellent. Very good,’ El’Uriaq said soothingly as his guests divested themselves of their masks and gazed around at their co-conspirators. ‘There really is nothing to fear. To show you that I’d like to introduce the great friend and ally that has made all of this possible – Archon Yllithian of the White Flames.’ The monster was looking straight at him as he said it.

  Yllithian felt blood rushing to his cheeks. Suddenly exposed, literally standing in the stablights as he was, he forced a smile onto his face. ‘Come down here, Nyos!’ called El’Uriaq. ‘Come stand at my side!’

  Some uncertain cheers with a polite smattering of applause followed Yllithian as he forced his unwilling feet to carry him back into the monster’s lair. El’Uriaq greeted him warmly once more and embraced him. Every ounce of Yllithian’s considerable self-control was necessary to keep himself from flinching. El’Uriaq whispered enigmatically: ‘I do hope you tried the cutlets, Nyos,’ before he continued to address his guests.

  ‘Yllithian here is a student of antiquities, a great raconteur in matters of the past – which I’m sure is why he took an interest in me.’ Dutiful laughter fluttered in response. ‘As such Yllithian here recalls many of the old traditions that have slipped away in modern times. For example I’ll wager that Yllithian remembers the Feast of Shaimesh, an archaic practice long forgotten by some.’

  Yllithian’s mind raced. The black arts of Shaimesh pertained to poisons and toxins of all kinds. The greatest practitioners of the art were the Lhamaeans, courtesan-poisoners who could bring a lover to the edge of ecstasy with their virulent brews – or snuff out their life like a candle. But the Feast of Shaimesh? A poison banquet… Fear clutched at Yllithian’s belly as El’Uriaq spoke again.

  ‘Shaimesh, father of poisons, taught us that everything can be a poison in the correct dosage and that the little kiss of death we find there is what adds spice to life. The students of Shaimesh would gather for a feast and test their skills against one another, poisoning each dish a little differently.’

  A deathly hush had fallen over the amphitheatre, his fearful audience hanging on every word. The low, rhythmic pulse of the drums continued, never speeding or slowing.

  ‘The poisons would be too subtle to detect, too mild and innocuous in effect to even classify as dangerous – on their own, that is. The combinations were the key, you see. Some compounds would cancel each other out… while others would combine and magnify their effects a thousand times.’

  A groan and a crash sounded out in the stillness of the amphitheatre. El’Uriaq continued unperturbed. ‘It is possible to
predict the effects of resulting necrolixirs with astounding accuracy, even down to the second of demise. I have looked into your hearts this night. Those of you with faith and obedience have nothing to fear, but those that would betray us, those that would crawl on their bellies before the tyrant and sell their comrades to lick a few crumbs from his hands…’

  El’Uriaq’s voice had been rising, growing stronger with each word. Now he stood from his throne and roared, ‘Now is the time you pay for your crimes!’

  Pandemonium erupted throughout the amphitheatre. Not one in ten of the guests fell prey to the dreadful vitriolic compounds they had drunk or ingested, but those that had been targeted died in the most spectacular and painful ways. The Dark Kin’s horrid talents had devised countless deadly effects down the ages.

  The philosopher-poet Pso’kobor, replete after unknowingly dining on pantopherol and tocotheric, simultaneously ruptured every blood vessel in his body with explosive force. He exsanguinated himself in a fine, red mist.

  The xeno-trader Mayylaenidian Vir twisted horribly as his bones were broken by his own spasming muscles. He howled wildly as his spine curved so far backwards his head emerged from between his knees before a final sickening crack made him silent. Even afterwards the muscles of the corpse continued to writhe and twist with a life of their own.

  The myrmidon Kolaxian burst into flames, spontaneously combusting like a tallow candle beneath a blowtorch. Flaming drips of fat showered as the luckless warrior staggered between tables and was fended off by his compatriots.

  The overseer Azurnal fell to a creeping vari-form of the glass plague, having had his own phagic inoculations against the deadly viral helix selectively neutralised by the delicious mirepoix he had tasted earlier. Sheets of black crystal shot through with lambent green slithered languorously down his legs and arms as he screamed for help that would not come.

  The archon Slithiyyius collapsed in the midst of his bodyguards, fallen prey to a foe their blades could not stop. Skin sloughed off him in untidy lumps as he rapidly turned into a pile of corroding bones and necrotising flesh.

  There were a dozen more equally horrifying deaths ranged around the amphitheatre, all of the guests seeing the price of disloyalty firsthand. Shrieks and laughter rang out in equal measure. El’Uriaq’s surviving faithful gratefully warmed themselves at the dying soul sparks all about them, an unexpectedly rich and generous feast. On the dais at the centre of it all Yllithian felt as if reality were stretching still thinner, a balloon ready to burst.

  ‘A fine jest, my host,’ he dared to whisper. ‘What other surprises might be in store, I wonder?’

  El’Uriaq grinned wolfishly, his eyes flashing dangerously with excitement. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he confided in Yllithian. ‘There may be a really big surprise still to come.’

  The entity was there again, staring out at him through El’Uriaq’s eyes. It knew. It knew Yllithian had seen it and it didn’t care. It would continue to use him anyway, right until his usefulness was all wrung out, and only then would it end him. What alternative did he have but to play along – apart from making the fatal mistake of seeking help from Asdrubael Vect? Yllithian was trapped, he was bound to the monster he’d created and they both knew it.

  ‘M… my lord?’ a small, frightened voice said from close at hand.

  El’Uriaq looked around at the speaker in some surprise. It was the worldsinger, her veils thrown back to show her pale face and vivid bruises. She cradled Angevere’s head in its casket as if it were a babe in arms.

  ‘My lord, may I speak?’ Laryin asked sweetly. Intrigued, El’Uriaq nodded brusquely.

  ‘I have a gift for you too, sire, if you’ll accept it. I have little to give you but it is something unique in the dark city, and perhaps of passing interest even to one as knowledgeable as yourself.’

  ‘A riddle? Quite charming. Very well, I accept and surrender; tell me of this mysterious gift that only you can bestow upon me.’

  ‘A song, my lord, such as we sing in the World Shrine on Lileathanir at the birth of new life to welcome it into the world of growing things. I will sing in honour of your return, if you will permit me to.’

  El’Uriaq’s face was sour. ‘If I want to hear wailing slaves I can make my own music quite successfully.’

  Angevere’s dry, rustling voice came from between Laryin’s arms. ‘Not a slave giving voice in terror, my archon, a pure heart rendering up her joy at your victories. Such sweetness as you have not heard since the fall of Shaa-dom when my sisters were all taken.’

  When El’Uriaq didn’t respond the crone persisted. ‘Will you not permit her to sing? If not for yourself then perhaps for the sake of the last of your poor, lost handmaids, Angevere?’

  Laryin’s knees were shaking. Angevere had told her not to be afraid, that fear is the mind-killer. Easy for her to say, being a thing of nightmare herself. El’Uriaq seemed to loom over her, an impossibly tall silhouette in the harsh lights behind him. She tried to focus on the one Angevere had called Yllithian instead. Without his crow mask the Dark Kin was bland and unassuming except for his eyes. They were as black and merciless as gun barrels, and they were trained on her.

  ‘Please,’ Laryin said piteously to El’Uriaq. ‘In my… realm it is traditional for the bride to bring a dowry to her betrothed. My father is dead and I have only this small thing I can give, but give it I must.’

  El’Uriaq turned to Yllithian and raised his brows quizzically. ‘What say you, Nyos?’ he said to his companion. ‘Should we permit this barbaric nuptial display in my hall?’

  Yllithian coughed politely before answering. ‘I don’t believe that it will impugn the dignity of your palace or office, no,’ he replied levelly. El’Uriaq laughed uproariously at that and clapped him on the back, making the small archon stagger.

  ‘Traces of a spine, Nyos!’ El’Uriaq smiled. ‘We’ll make a true leader out of you yet! I was beginning to worry that too much time spent conspiring had softened your bones.’

  ‘They remain yours to crush at will, apparently,’ Yllithian said ruefully while rubbing his shoulder. ‘I, at least, would like to hear our captive bird sing. Just as the girl said it would be a unique experience even here in Commorragh, the city of a thousand and one delights. It might go some way to repaying the considerable difficulties in procuring her – above and beyond the resurrection of your inestimable self and the sadly departed Kraillach, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ El’Uriaq nodded. Turning to Laryin he said, ‘Very well, as an indulgence to my friend here I will listen for a while. Ensure it’s sweet to my ears or I’ll soon have you singing a different tune.’

  Laryin nodded nervously and knelt quickly to put down the casket she held before rising again, seeming to grow in confidence as she did so. She drew in breath once, twice, thrice and began her song alone and unaccompanied, somehow weaving it gently into the background clamour of the amphitheatre. It began with a thin, tremulous refrain that twisted to and fro, always questing, seeking like the first shoots of new growth.

  Her song was a thing of beauty woven of sound and psychic energy in equal parts, tickling empathically like mind speech, affecting the body on an almost cellular level as it responded to the forgotten sounds of creation. The background noise seemed to fall away as Laryin’s voice grew stronger, breaking to the surface with the joy of new awakening.

  Yllithian basked in the glow of her power. It felt very much like it had at the resurrection but now the energy Bellathonis had wrung from her with his torture engines was being freely given. There was the slightest tingling sensation on his skin, as though every fine hair were straining to stand on end. Alarm registered in his satiated mind and then was swept away by a wave of pleasure as Laryin struck a high note, as clear and perfect as pure crystal.

  El’Uriaq seemed enraptured, a horrible thing to behold as his face was written with all the lust, possessiveness and violence this bright, quivering spark of soul-life aroused in him. The worldsinger sang
on, but she was not looking at the monster leering over her. She gazed full at Yllithian and something in her clear eyes held both a warning and a plea.

  Yllithian suddenly understood and stumbled away, almost falling on the steps of the dais. The world song rolled around him, rich and potent. Laryin sang of flourishing life, bursting forth upon the canvas of creation, shaping it and changing it with endless potential. The tingling on Yllithian’s skin had increased to a prickling. He staggered past unmasked guests and naked slaves, all seemingly frozen and silently gazing up at the dais. He desperately forced his stiffening limbs to carry him toward the servant’s entrance he’d spied earlier.

  The song swept over him, powerful and dirge-like now as it sang of death. It seemed too powerful, too sonorous to be coming from the little white witch on the dais, as though she had evoked an otherworldly choir of roaring spirits. His skin was burning, and he looked down in horror at his hands. A film of black-green crystal was creeping across his skin, starting at his fingertips and already grown back as far as the second knuckle. Yllithian gave a little shriek and found that his face and lips were frighteningly immobile. He lurched through the skin curtains ahead of him, battering them frantically aside with rigid hands.

  Behind him Laryin sang of sadness and loss, of life returning to the dark place beneath the world. Her voice cracked, and she trailed off, unable to continue. Silence fell across the amphitheatre. The silence of death.

  Her audience sat or stood or lay unmoving all around, frozen in the vitrifying grip of the glass plague. What had been a place of horrors now seemed like a work of stunning artistry, the faceless dark crystal rendering its victims into a form of transcendent unity. Deathly silence hung over the whole tableau.

  ‘Are they really…?’

  ‘Dead. Yes, their souls are flown.’

  Laryin looked at El’Uriaq on his throne, caught leaning forwards, eyes wide, mouth set in an avaricious leer. He seemed to be gazing back at her, and she shuddered.