The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  Tessanna stepped between him and Xarl, and she smiled so sweetly at the paladin.

  “Leave,” she said, “or I will show you how great a blasphemy I can perform on your corpse.”

  Xarl bowed low, flashed them one last mocking smile, and trudged back to the camp. Tessanna stood frozen as she watched him leave. Qurrah shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling strangely guilty.

  “Tess,” he said, “if you want to return home, I...”

  His wife spun around, and he was shocked by the anger burning in her wide eyes.

  “We’re staying,” she said. “Whatever Karak’s paladins are planning, I want to know what it is, and I want to stop it.” She looked over her shoulder, her stare boring holes into the distant man’s armor. “I won’t let them survive. They don’t get to come back, Qurrah. They don’t get to burn the world then pretend to be its saviors.”

  5

  Life was hardly pleasant, given the itchy healing of his burns and the painful way he’d been strapped down, head fixed, fingers locked to prevent spellcasting, but the boredom drove Tarlak mad the most. Hour after hour he stared at the few nature paintings, unable to move, forced to shit and piss into a pan. They wouldn’t give him anything to read, and even if they did, he had no way of holding a book or turning its pages. With such terrible conditions, this left Tarlak with one single avenue of entertainment: annoying the Abyss out of his assigned caretaker, Cecil Towerborn.

  “Surely you’ve thought about why your parents dumped you at the tower’s doorstep,” he said as the man steadily scrubbed Tarlak’s leg with a damp cloth. “Too poor to raise you, perhaps? Doubtful, I say. Even the poorest of the poor tend to find ways to feed and clothe their young. Hoping for a better life? Maybe, if your parents didn’t realize what would happen to you if you failed to show any magical affinity. Seems a bit of a stretch. Ooh, I’ve got it. You were an extremely ugly baby, and...”

  “Shut up!” Cecil shouted, flinging the cloth onto the bed in frustration. “Just shut up already! Gods curse me, Dezrel has endured plagues that were less annoying than you.”

  Tarlak lifted his head the highest his restraints would allow, and he winked at the man.

  “You’re not done yet,” he said. “You still need to clean my ass.”

  Cecil’s glare made Tarlak wonder if he’d finally gone too far. If there were any sharp objects in the vicinity, they’d already be lodged in his throat. Cecil clutched the side of the bed, fingers digging into the mattress. His teeth clenched. His eyes widened.

  “One more word,” Cecil said. “Say one more word, and I will kill you and claim you were trying to escape.”

  “They’d know you were lying,” Tarlak said.

  “I don’t care. It’d be worth it to see you die. Now have I made myself clear, you pathetic disgrace to our order?”

  Tarlak clucked his tongue.

  “Perfectly. Forgive me, I meant no offense. It’s lonely locked in here, that’s all. I promise to behave while you go about doing your duties.”

  “Thank you,” Cecil said doubtfully. The apprentice picked up the cloth, dipped it into a bucket at his feet, and prepared to resume.

  “So,” Tarlak said. “Would you like to start with the left cheek, or the right?”

  As Cecil flung the rag and summoned fire about his hands, Tarlak decided this was it, his moment to die, but it seemed the world had other ideas. The door to his room opened, and in stepped Roand the Flame. Cecil quickly banished the fire and spun around with a guilty look on his face.

  “Cecil?” Roand asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Is he ready?”

  “I...no, not yet,” Cecil stammered.

  Roand’s eyes bore into the apprentice, flicking occasionally over to Tarlak’s pinned body.

  “Then finish up,” he said. “His wounds have healed enough for his trial to finally begin. Send him to the Grand Council once he’s ready.”

  “Yes, master,” Cecil said, head bowed.

  The wizard left, and Cecil let out a long sigh as the door closed.

  “Trial?” Tarlak asked.

  “Yes, your trial,” Cecil said, picking up the rag yet again. “Followed by your well-deserved execution. By the time they’re through with you, you’ll wish Roand had never interrupted me.”

  Pleasant, thought Tarlak.

  Cecil continued his daily routine, the idea of Tarlak’s impending death putting a bounce in his step. Tarlak examined his burns as Cecil slowly scrubbed, surprised by how quickly they’d healed. Whatever cream they’d been putting on him had worked wonders, the burned flesh flaking off to reveal fresh pink skin underneath. Tarlak would have greatly preferred one of Ashhur’s priests doing the healing instead, but at least the wizards’ methods were quick and efficient. Now if only they could do something about his missing hair...

  “Finished,” Cecil said several minutes later. “And hopefully for the last time. Time to get you dressed.”

  Tarlak let out a grunt, surprised. They’d kept him covered with only a loin cloth over the past week. Tied down as he was, putting on any sort of clothing was impossible. Might he finally be released? If so, Tarlak planned on returning Cecil’s attempt to burn him with a bit of fire of his own.

  To Tarlak’s surprise, Cecil left the room without another word. Tarlak craned his neck and stared at the closed door.

  “Uh, hello?” he said.

  The door opened a moment later, Cecil hurrying back inside with a pair of folded red robes in his arms. The two objects atop the robes, however, were what immediately captured Tarlak’s attention. One was a loaded hand-crossbow. The other was a small black sphere covered with runes that shone a rainbow of colors. Simply being in its presence made Tarlak feel weak and strange. His connection to the weave of magical energy wavered.

  A voidsphere, thought Tarlak. Looks like escape won’t be so easy after all. Couldn’t these bastards slip up at least once?

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what this is,” Cecil said as he set the voidsphere down beside the bed. “No tricks, so just behave, and try to go to your death with a shred of dignity.”

  “With my face as bald as it is?” said Tarlak. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Cecil tossed the robes onto Tarlak’s bed and grabbed the crossbow in his left hand. Staying just out of reach, he steadily undid the clasps holding Tarlak’s arms and legs down. Once Tarlak was completely free, Cecil retrieved the voidsphere, stepped back, and aimed the crossbow at him.

  “Dress yourself,” he said. “Make any attempt to escape and I put an arrow in your chest.”

  Tarlak grunted, and he slowly sat up on the bed. The action immediately flooded his entire body with pain. Muscles that hadn’t moved weeks suddenly pulled and flexed, and it seemed every tiny shift made some part of his body ache. He let out a gasp at the sudden onslaught of pain.

  Escape? he thought. I can barely move, and he thinks I’ll try to escape?

  Tarlak remained seated as he grabbed the robes and started to dress himself. They were plain enough, the fabric warm and comfortable. Lifting his arms through the sleeves unleashed a whole new wave of pain, but he bore it in silence. The last thing he wanted to do was give Cecil the satisfaction. The brat would get enough satisfaction watching Tarlak’s execution.

  Once the robes were over his body, he slid off the bed. Despite the pain, it felt incredibly good to be on his feet, and he slowly rolled his shoulders and stretched.

  “Almost better than sex,” Tarlak said, his body feeling like it was awakening from a lengthy slumber. “Not that you’d know, Cecil, so just trust me on this one.”

  “Cute,” Cecil said. “So cute. Your death can’t come soon enough.”

  “Careful now,” Tarlak said as he stepped toward the door. “With talk like that, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

  Cecil tucked the voidsphere under his arm so he could open the door with his free hand while still pointing the crossbow at Tarlak.

  �
�Walk,” said the apprentice.

  Tarlak exited the door, curious where he was. He’d never been inside either of the two towers, learning of them only through rumors and the stories his master, Madral, had told him during his training. By his guess they were in the apprentice tower, based mostly on the complete lack of ornate decorations on the bare red brick walls. A thin hallway lined with doors led to the stairs. No writing above, no markings of any kind. The floor was brick as well, and cold to his bare feet.

  Cecil gestured with the crossbow. “Come along.”

  Tarlak shambled forward, panic rising in his chest. Stairs? He was going to have to climb stairs? Wincing at the anticipated pain, he flexed his legs with each step, hoping to limber up. It wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself. Just a few stairs, and it wasn’t like his legs were that sore.

  It was that bad. They climbed up and up, the room they’d kept him in apparently as far away from their destination as possible. Tarlak leaned against the wall, bracing his weight after every step. His back was screaming, his legs so sore they burned with the tiniest movement.

  They don’t need to kill me, thought Tarlak. Just make me climb up and down these stairs until I fling myself out a window.

  Not that the windows were big enough, Tarlak realized sadly. Just tiny little triangular slits that he could maybe fit his head through. It was almost like they anticipated his suicidal desire, and prevented it. Muttering to himself, Tarlak forced himself on. He’d endured worse, he told himself. Hadn’t he?

  “One more floor,” Cecil said, and Tarlak took some satisfaction in noting how his jailor also sounded out of breath from the climb. They’d passed many exits to other floors while climbing, and Tarlak had tried to catch glimpses of what they held. Most everywhere was the same, sparse and without decoration or creature comforts. Bare floors. Plain wood furniture. They’d passed a library at one point, but cruelest was early on, when they’d passed a kitchen. The smell of warm food had awakened his dormant stomach. The only thing he’d had to eat and drink were bowls of soup, hand fed to him by the always-pleasant Cecil. This had led to many quick meals and unfinished bowls, for even hunger could not keep Tarlak’s tongue under control.

  Finally they exited the stairs, and Tarlak stood before a wide wooden door.

  “Push it,” Cecil said. “If you can.”

  Tarlak pressed his sore body against the door, steadily creaking it open. Once halfway, the wind caught it, yanking it further, and Tarlak stumbled out into the open air. Beneath him was a long, slender bridge spanning the gap between the two towers, the bricks a mixture of the red from the apprentice tower and the black of the masters’. To Tarlak’s dismay, there wasn’t a railing.

  “Watch your step,” Cecil said as he followed Tarlak onto the bridge. Tarlak peered over the edge to see the Rigon River flowing beneath him. The two towers were positioned on opposite sides of the river. Watch his step? He could barely move without wobbling, and while the bridge was wide, he hardly trusted his balance, and then there was the issue of the softly blowing wind. Of course, he might be able to take a certain snot-nosed apprentice tumbling over the side with him...

  Cecil must have had the same thought, for he remained several feet behind Tarlak with his crossbow at the ready.

  “Don’t get clever,” he said. “I won’t be crossing until you’re at the other side.”

  Tarlak let out a sigh. No fun at all. Turning back to the bridge, he decided that pride and dignity were already beneath him, so there was nothing left to lose. Dropping to all fours, he began crawling across the very center of the bridge. The brick hurt his knees, but he had a feeling the water below would hurt far worse if he fell. When he was halfway across, Tarlak spun on his rear and waved at Cecil.

  “You coming?” he asked as if it were a cheery autumn day and they were headed for a picnic.

  Tarlak chuckled and continued crawling toward the other side. Once there, he held onto the handle of the thick wooden door, used it to stand, and then flung it open. An elderly man in black robes waited for him in a small entryway, his eyes sparkling green, his beard white, the top of his head bald.

  “You’re finally here,” the mage said. “About time. My name is Adjara. Come with me, Tarlak Eschaton. Your trial awaits.”

  Instead of traveling down, they immediately went up. These stairs, Tarlak noticed, were comfortably carpeted a dull crimson, and the walls were covered with paintings of former members of the Council. Mostly, they were a bunch of frowning old men.

  No wonder I was never a part of this place, Tarlak thought as he slowly followed the elderly Adjara. I swear these mages have never heard of a concept known to us regular folk as ‘smiling’.

  Fifteen steps up they reached another door. Adjara opened it without ceremony, leading Tarlak into the expansive hall of the Grand Council. The domed roof stretched at least thirty feet above smooth, circular walls. The carpet alternated between various shades of red, starting in the center of the room and rippling outward as if a stone had been cast into a pond. Nine oak chairs with padded red cushions formed a circle, each one facing the center of the room. All nine were occupied, and Tarlak swallowed down his growing nervousness. Only one chair was different from the others, the one directly across from the entrance, and in that chair sat Roand the Flame.

  “At last you arrive,” Roand said, his deep voice echoing through the room. “Though the fault is mine in thinking Cecil could perform his tasks in a suitable amount of time.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tarlak chuckled, glad to know that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand the idiot. As he stepped into the center of the room, he felt the effects of the voidsphere leaving him. It was a welcome feeling, though it wouldn’t help him much. He was surrounded by nine mages, each likely an even match with himself. The slightest attempt at a spell would result in him being burned, exploded, bled from the ears, or turned into a random animal. Possibly all at once, depending on how fast each of the mages reacted.

  “Greetings, men and women of the Council,” Tarlak said as he slowly turned in a circle. None of the mages looked to be below middle age, and even the three women sported a few gray hairs in their carefully trimmed hair. Their faces were passive, guarded, perhaps even bored. Tarlak couldn’t guess if that was good or bad.

  “Or should I say Grand Council?” he added before anyone corrected him. The full Council consisted of fifty members, whereas the Grand Council consisted of the nine most powerful. From what he’d learned from Madral, the Council met at regular intervals to decide mundane matters, with the Grand Council convening only for important decisions.

  Decisions like whether or not to execute a troublesome wizard who had broken their rules.

  “For now, you should say nothing,” Roand said. The fiery illusions cast upon his hair caused the colored flame to ripple through the strands. “You have many transgressions we must document, both against our towers as well as against Dezrel at large.”

  “If you’d like I can get that started for you,” Tarlak said. “Let’s see, I killed my master Madral when I was eighteen, turned down your invitations at least six times, operated an enterprise with significant magical involvement, my Eschaton Mercenaries to be exact, despite no written permission from your council, defeated three different assassins you sent after me, turning one into a mudskipper, one into a rabbit, and one into a frog, and last but not least, I marched alongside King Antonil Copernus during his attempt to retake the east from the orcs. That final one I don’t quite understand the crime in, but since it resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent men, I assume it’s an important one.”

  Stunned silence greeted Tarlak when he finished. Unable to help himself, the swept an arm wide as he bowed low.

  “Did I miss anything?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said a dour looking woman with a pointed nose and long, dangling silver earrings. “You neglected to mention your complete lack of respect toward the Grand Council during your own trial
.”

  Tarlak smiled at her.

  “That one seemed unnecessary, since you were all here to witness it.”

  “Enough,” Roand said. A thin gold rod covered with red gems lay across his lap, and he waved it once toward Tarlak. Immediately, the air in Tarlak’s lungs seemed to grow sticky and hot, and when he tried to speak, it was like trying to vomit up stone. Pulse pounding in his neck, he breathed in and out, trying to relax. The strange discomfort only affected him when trying to talk, so he kept quiet.

  Roand set the rod back down. “In this room, I am master. And you will show respect, Tarlak, whether you feel it deserved or not. Your entire life you’ve carried a cavalier attitude toward authority, but this is one moment where you need to acknowledge the gravity of your situation.”

  “If he doesn’t understand that now, he never will,” said the dour woman. “Meaning this trial is over before it has already begun. He isn’t worthy of candidacy. Cut off his hands and cast him from the bridge so we might move on to more important matters.”

  A portly man with a beard growing solely from his neck let out a half-hearted cheer in agreement.

  “Let us not be so hasty,” said a thin man with a face more resembling a hawk than a human. “Respect may be learned, whereas innate magical talents cannot.”

  Tarlak looked about, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. They were serious. He’d walked into this trial thinking it’d be a sham, but apparently they truly did wish to debate his merits as a potential member of the Council. Tarlak wasn’t sure if that meant they were less insane, or more. They’d brutally murdered his friend, Antonil, yet still thought he might be a productive member of their organization?

  Tarlak opened his mouth to respond, felt his lungs harden and throat constrict. Roand saw and tapped his wand.

  “You may speak,” the Lord of the Council said. “And I pray you use a more appropriate tone.”

  His lungs loosened, and Tarlak slowly breathed out with relief. So there still might be a chance to save his life? Bizarre, but expecting sanity from this group was probably a mistake.