Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Under the Crimson Sun

  ( The Abyssal plague )

  Keith R.A. Decandido

  Keith R.A. Decandido

  Under the Crimson Sun

  PROLOGUE

  When you’re immortal, you literally have all the time in the world to craft and implement plans. If one plan fails, it matters little, for there is plenty of time to try another.

  But when there is no way to bring the plans to fruition, it becomes the worst prison an immortal could endure.

  No doubt when two gods, Pelor and Ioun, imprisoned a third, Tharizdun, in a desolate void, they had thought it to be doubly devastating. The Chained God had eternity to plot and plan, and eternity to sit in frustration.

  And indeed, Tharizdun had come up with dozens, thousands, millions of plans to make his escape. Each was brilliant in its own way, clever and sublime.

  And each was wholly unworkable, because there was nothing else in that endless deserted wasteland. The Chained God had investigated the universe quite thoroughly, used all the means at his disposal to find something amidst the endless wastes.

  He found nothing.

  He knew it was fruitless to keep searching, but while he had nothing to work with, he also had nothing better to do.

  So he sought something, anything besides himself.

  It was impossible to tell how long he had been there. Even when he had been among the revered gods, Tharizdun had rarely concerned himself with the passage of time. That was a concern of the mortal coil. What did he care about the march of history when he was unaffected by it? He did not age, did not change, but was constant regardless.

  Yet even the markers that mortals used were denied him there. There were no suns or moons to rise and fall, no celestial bodies to orbit one another in measurable sequence.

  Were he mortal, he would have long since gone mad and died.

  But Tharizdun was a god, so such luxuries were denied him.

  Ioun and Pelor had probably thought that particular universe to be a fitting prison. After all, Tharizdun had opened the Living Gate and later unleashed the Abyss on the universe. He had hoped to wreak death and destruction-the very same that was inflicted upon the universe to which he’d been exiled.

  But, as usual, his fellow gods missed the point. They always did.

  To Tharizdun, the destruction rendered to this universe was meaningless. It wasn’t the end result that was of interest to Tharizdun, it was the process. Eventually, his home universe might be like this desolate place, but to get there, billions of years would have to pass, a near infinite number of agonies would be written on the souls of the living, chaos would overtake order in a beautiful conflagration.

  The gods that put him in his prison would see their creation rent asunder. It would be a slow, laborious, magnificent journey. An unraveling of all that had been done. And from that destruction, something new would arise in its place, something that Tharizdun had done.

  Because he had no concept of spans of time within this dead place, Tharizdun had no idea when, exactly, it was that he found the red crystalline liquid. But it was, at last, a break in the monotony of imagining what would be.

  He recognized the liquid crystal for what it was.

  Tharizdun had once used the shard of an ancient, powerful crystal to unleash the Abyss on his own universe.

  Though liquefied, this red substance he found himself standing before now derived from the same great crystal.

  It was the Progenitor of Chaos. He could feel it.

  More than that-he could hear it. The same whispery importuning to be unleashed that had come from the crystal in his own world spoke to Tharizdun now.

  Set me free, it said. Let me loose.

  “I cannot even free myself,” Tharizdun said with frustration. “Besides, your work here is done.”

  The ignominy hit him like a spell. Here he had unfettered access to the Progenitor, to the liquid crystal that embodied all the spectacular chaos that Tharizdun had tried to unleash on his own universe-and he could do nothing with it. It had done its work here and lay useless.

  As useless as Tharizdun himself was. But perhaps there was a way …

  So Tharizdun began to concentrate, to focus and project his will into the void and beyond. With enough clarity of purpose, he would be able to contact those in the world of the gods that needed him most. The disenfranchised, the downtrodden, those whose existence was most tenuous. They would hear his call and do their part. While the conscious minds of his followers were denied him, the murky veil of the dreamscape proved accessible.

  It was an imperfect method of communication. Through the dreams of his worshipers, he was able to reassure them that he did live, in an exile much like their own, and that his return would mean destruction of the structures that denied. Tharizdun could give his followers little beyond dreams, but the promises they held were powerful. And he could give them the impetus for that revolution.

  Tharizdun knew that there was a ritual that could make use of a fragment of the Living Gate to open a portal between the worlds. Tharizdun-in the company of his fellow gods-had found the Living Gate in the depths of the Astral Sea, and Tharizdun had opened it, unleashing the horrors of the Far Realm upon his home universe.

  Fragments of the Gate existed, and if Tharizdun’s worshipers performed the ritual in his abandoned dominion of Pandemonium, a tiny tear could be opened between realities.

  Tharizdun had never explored that option because the portal needed to be opened on both sides in order to break free of Pelor and Ioun’s chains.

  But he had found a tool by which to bridge the gap between universes.

  And so Tharizdun formed a hand of darkness and reached out to the red liquid. “Both of us are trapped, but together we can be free. Together, we will unleash our might upon the people of the world. And they will drown in blood.”

  The Progenitor undulated and flowed at the Chained God’s touch, encircling the darkness and bone of his form.

  It too had been alone for immeasurable time. It too hungered for purpose.

  Alone, both Tharizdun and the Progenitor were helpless. Together, they might be able to free themselves from this void.

  The Chained God combined two existing plans into a third that might, at last, bring both him and the Progenitor out of that forsaken emptiness.

  The next step was to once again pierce the gulf and speak to his worshipers through their nightmares. Or, rather, speak to one particular worshiper.

  It was always a tricky thing. From a god’s perspective, the ideal worshiper was one who did so unthinkingly. There was no devotion quite like mindless devotion, uncluttered as it was by reason.

  But Tharizdun needed a task to be performed, one that would require dedication and ingenuity and an ability to lead other devout followers in that task.

  Luckily, he did have one such follower who miraculously hadn’t been killed, nor had he-like so many others-lost their minds completely to his whispering dreams.

  And so the exiled god reached out to Albric, his most loyal follower, to tell him to travel to the ruins of Bael Turath and find a rod containing a fragment of the Living Gate.

  The imprecision of time continued to frustrate Tharizdun, but with a viable plan, a purpose, it seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. Painfully aware of every moment that he sat, staring into the red abyss of the Voidharrow, Tharizdun waited for Albric to complete his task.

  Through his link with the human, Tharizdun could sense pieces of Albric’s progress through the murk of the gap between universes, mostly by the mortal’s emotions. The god could feel Albric’s elation at finding and seizing the rod in Bael Turath;
his eagerness as he used the powers that his devotion to Tharizdun provided to travel to Pandemonium via the City of Doors; his triumph as he gathered seven more to his side.

  With each new follower Albric was able to bring to his cause, Tharizdun felt the link grow stronger, as the power of their devotion enabled him to more aggressively pierce the veil between universes, and he was able to speak directly to Albric through one of his more weak-minded devotees rather than through the vague imagery of dreams.

  The moment was coming. All of Tharizdun’s planning, all his patience, all his frustration-it was finally coming to a head. Dozens of plans and one, at last, was starting to bear fruit.

  When he felt Albric’s devotion at its greatest height, he knew it was time. A shudder passed through all of reality as Albric’s spell unleashed the power of the Gate fragment to poke through the barriers that separated universes, to force a crack.

  Reaching out with his godly might, Tharizdun sent the liquid crystal through that crack, watching as the roiling chaos seeped through the chink in the armor that imprisoned a god, seeking out ways to sow the seeds of madness.

  Then disaster. Champions of Ioun and Pelor, along with a wizard and two fighters, interrupted the ritual even as Albric and the other seven devotees were transformed by the Voidharrow into strange creatures of madness. Tharizdun had known nothing of this, and he screamed in rage at the Progenitor. “You betrayed me.”

  But the Progenitor denied the accusation. Now we spread, your will and my substance. We are the Voidharrow.

  The Chained God saw the creatures that his eight worshipers had changed into. “Like a plague. Your substance and my will.”

  Our will.

  While the Voidharrow had pierced the veil on Tharizdun’s end, the thrice-damned heroes had closed it on the other side, leaving Tharizdun and the Progenitor trapped once again.

  But the veil had been pierced. With the Voidharrow loose, he had a foothold.

  And that was not all. The ritual Albric had led enabled the Chained God to reach out to many worlds. He could not send himself through the veil to any of those worlds-the gods had imprisoned him too well-but the Voidharrow … It could seep through the chinks in the armor that Albric’s ritual had exposed.

  If the Voidharrow spread far enough and took root in enough other worlds, it would provide the foundation of a latticework of chaos, a linkage of Abyssal force that would smash through the barriers that kept Tharizdun trapped there, allowing him to return to his own universe.

  For the first time since Ioun and Pelor trapped him in that wretched place, Tharizdun threw his head back and laughed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vas Belrik’s wife always yelled at him when he rode a family crodlu to the marketplace.

  Of course, one could also end that thought with “him” and it would remain accurate. Tova Belrik always found something to scream at him about. He married her in order to solidify a merger between his family and the Hakran family. The Belriks had always bred the finest crodlus in Raam, and the Hakrans ran the best stables. It seemed a natural match-at least to Vas’s father and Tova’s parents.

  Vas, being a teenager at the time, didn’t really have any say in the matter. Marrying who you chose to marry was a privilege of the lower born. As a scion of one of the wealthier families in Raam, Vas did as he was told.

  As a result, Vas had more wealth than he knew what to do with, and could pretty much do as he pleased, so he could hardly complain … much.

  Tova had commensurate wealth. Their parents’ plan was a good one, and the newly merged Belrik-Hakran stable had grown to the point where they had no real competition anymore, and their monopoly on Raam’s crodlu trade allowed the Belriks to live a life of luxury.

  In that, they were a rarity in Raam these days. As Vas rode through the thoroughfares, he looked past the bodyguards walking alongside him on all sides (the streets weren’t safe, after all) and saw houses that had been burned out, once elegant and beautiful structures that had been badly damaged by civil unrest, businesses that had closed their doors permanently. Once mines had provided alabaster and gemstones enough to keep the higher castes wealthy and the lower castes employed, but the mines had dried up, as had the land.

  The Belrik and Hakran families remained wealthy because people always needed crodlus. Of course, many of them needed those crodlus to get away from the depressed nightmare that Raam had become …

  Still, the Belriks had staff and slaves to run things-some of the best crodlu handlers in all of Athas worked for them-so they had very few responsibilities of their own.

  Which meant that Vas could indulge himself and head to the marketplace. It was one of the few places in Raam that was still worth going to.

  Once he got through Tova’s screed on the subject of riding out on a family crodlu, anyway. “That’s merchandise!” she’d scream. “What if it gets hurt?” she’d bellow. “That could cost us dearly!” she’d yell.

  Not that it was an issue. They had enough coin to choke a crodlu, after all.

  There were times when he wondered why she even spoke to him. It wasn’t as if he sought out her company. Their marriage’s sole purpose was to facilitate a business deal. At some point, they’d have to have children, which would require them to actually sleep in the same bed for once, but they were young and had plenty of time. Vas kept himself busy with an assortment of concubines who were well compensated for the privilege, and he knew that Tova had a few men of her own that she used for the same purpose.

  What Vas really needed was a distraction-an adventure of some sort. Something to get him out of the wretchedness that Raam had become.

  Not permanently, of course. Abalach-Re, the sorcerer-queen, may well have retreated from the public eye, her templars may have stayed hidden in their towers, the population of the city-state may well have halved in the past decade, but Raam was still Vas’s home. He would never leave forever.

  But a vacation would truly make his heart sing.

  The red sun beat down on Vas’s scarved head as the crodlu sauntered down the road, its clawed limbs easily gaining purchase in the cobblestones. The beast of burden’s head was lowered, its beak grazing the stone as it ambled along.

  Every three months, there were traveling merchants who set up shop at the bazaar on Aggas Way just outside the city-state’s walls. Once, when Vas was a youth, the bazaar was held monthly inside the city, but the merchants no longer felt safe, and came only once a season-many only made the journey once a year. Changed times had transformed the walls of Raam from a defense from the world outside to a prison for those inside. Traveling merchants did not trust the mansabdars, those cutpurses who served as Raam’s police, to protect them inside the walls-and given the rampant corruption amongst Raam’s alleged protectors, Vas could not blame them. Most merchants preferred to sell their wares from a location that allowed them an easy escape from potential trouble.

  Behind Vas and his bodyguards, several of his slaves came along on kanks with his coins and some food and water. On one of the kanks rode Cristophe, who had been Vas’s tutor growing up.

  It was usually an all-day trip, and when he wanted to take a lunch break, he preferred to do it near Aggas Way so he could spend as much time as possible at the bazaar. So he brought enough food for him, Cristophe, and all the slaves and bodyguards to eat.

  The first few hours proved frustrating.

  First there was the jeweler with a series of pieces all made with orange and red stones.

  As soon as Vas brought the crodlu to a halt, the merchant started in: “Lovely necklaces, sir. Or perhaps a brooch? These are fire gems, sir, they truly are, straight from the caves of Under-Tyr. Make your wife look prettier than ever, they will.”

  Cristophe peered at the merchant from over his long, aquiline nose with his rheumy blue eyes. “The caves of Under-Tyr produce gems that are green and black. These look more like stones from the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, from which red and orange rocks are fairly commonplace.
”

  Vas’s smile increased in inverse proportion to the frown that grew on that of the merchant. Most people hereabouts knew little of the southern lands, but Cristophe was well traveled in his youth.

  “Sorry,” Vas said, “but even if they were from the caves of Under-Tyr, I’m afraid that nothing could make my wife look even remotely pretty.”

  Next was the spice merchant. Generally, spice merchants were hard on the nose, as they often carried a variety of spices that did not necessarily go well together-but the variety was crucial to a merchant’s success. This one, though, seemed to go out of his way to put the most incompatible spices next to each other, and Vas was unable to keep his nose from wrinkling.

  “Finest spices from Balic. Can’t get these anywhere else.”

  As they went by, Cristophe named five different places where he could get spices from Balic. “And none of them would make my eyes water.”

  Then there was the stonemaker.

  “I’ve got the finest pestles you’ll ever see. Never crack, never wear out. Specially treated with my own formula to keep it looking shiny.”

  Vas just looked at him. “Do I look like I use a pestle?”

  The merchant smiled. “Fair enough, sir, fair enough. Perhaps a jewelry box for the wife or daughter? Or a candle holder? Specially treated with my own formula to keep it looking shiny-never wear down or get scorch marks. Or how about a cutting surface for your cook? Specially treated with my own formula to keep it from wearing down.”

  Vas considered. “The notion of stonework that wears down more slowly is appealing.”

  “Not more slowly, sir, but never at all.”

  Letting the hyperbole go, Vas continued: “But the design of your work is so-so-I’m sorry, I can’t quite put my finger on the proper word.”

  Cristophe scowled. “I believe the word you’re grasping for is ‘dull.’ ”

  Grinning, Vas snapped his fingers in mock joy and said, “Yes! Dull. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen plain rocks in the wastes that have more aesthetic value than your wares.”