Crypt of the Violator

by K. J. Coble

  Asyra...oh damn. She couldn’t think on that now, by Scintallos! She had to keep her focus on the terrible danger before her.

  “Do you have any idea what he was doing up there?” Bazul asked.

  Again, she governed her voice. “Seeking an item of some importance, I’d guess.”

  “You’d guess?” Bazul smirked a little. “Bauble hunting? Someone like him, who grew up knowing the tales of the place?”

  “I think it must have been something specific,” she replied, trying to avoid directly lying. “And I think he found something other than what he expected.”

  “I’ll say,” Bazul snorted.

  “Sire—” the Chamberlain began again.

  “Word of this is not to leave this place,” Bazul commanded and turned to regard all of those that’d accompanied him. He looked down his nose at the Chamberlain. “Nothing.” The official shrank back from him, bowing. “The Dukes and Barons are not to be informed.” Bazul glowered around at his entourage. “Is that understood by all of you?”

  Nods answered him.

  “Good. Clear this space.” He gestured at them in dismissal. “Now. I would confer with the Adeptus, alone.”

  And here it comes, Lyssa thought, guts twisting as she watched the others scuttle from the tent. Even with them gone, it was a tight space, with Bazul now standing over Kham’s corpse, arms folded thoughtfully. Still, she had no indication of his rage, only the feeling of a man faced with an unexpected puzzle.

  “Fool,” he said quietly over the body. He shivered once and turned to her. “I don’t suppose we can speak someplace else? I can feel him still looking at me.”

  Uncertain what he meant by that, Lyssa nodded and led the Emperor to the adjoining tent that held her quarters. Bazul glanced around at her meager items, the minutiae of a wizard’s trade. He stepped to the center and leaned one arm against the central tent pole. There, his shoulders sagged a little and she got the first hint of the man’s strain.

  “Well, this is quite inconvenient,” Bazul said.

  “I’m sorry, sire.”

  “It’s more than the war, you see,” he went on, as though she hadn’t spoken, “or even securing the region afterward. He was one of the weakest of his siblings. They would have assuredly tried to overthrow him, once we left. That would’ve given me the excuse to leave forces here indefinitely. The Bayazerines, the Syrenerians, none of them would dare step into the power vacuum in that case.”

  He turned to face Lyssa and the flash in his eyes—the zeal—sent a jolt of fear through her. “The whole world under Scintallos, don’t you see?” He clearly didn’t intend for her to respond. “The Sun God shining over the whole Mid Sea basin. And after that...the world beyond. Do you see, Adeptus?”

  “I see it, Your Highness,” she forced herself to reply.

  “That poor, slithering fool, Kham, was to have been an agent for Sctinallos’ plan.” Bazul sighed. “As with so many, though, it’s clear he didn’t see his part in it, saw only his own meager gain, whatever that was.”

  “My Lord,” Lyssa began, feeling the time was right, with the others gone, “I think he intended to awaken something up in those ruins.”

  “Oh?”

  “I...didn’t think it wise to share that in front of the others.”

  Bazul smiled thinly, some kind of calculation going on behind his eyes. “For one so young, you are indeed wise. Old Durothan would’ve kept that from me—did keep things from me, as you well know.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Cyrok, I think, would’ve kept it from me. But you.” He stepped closer to her, eyes searching her own. “You know I would find out, anyway. I always find out.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Always.” His voice trembled a little and his features were momentarily fierce. But the expression faded, and he half-turned away, arms folded again. “Did he, as you say, ‘awaken’ something in Zadam?”

  “Something is stirred, yes, Highness. I can feel it. The air thickens with it. It’s not anything physical, that I can tell. It’s more a presence, intensifying, working its will upon us.” She straightened her back, stiffened to tell the Emperor the truth. “Sire, I know this isn’t something you want to hear, but I agree with the Chamberlain; we should abandon the campaign. If not because of Xass Kham’s death, but because of what he may have unleashed.”

  “You do?” His voice was mild again, dangerous.

  She swallowed. “Yes, sire I do.”

  “Leave this place?”

  “As quickly as is practical, yes.”

  Bazul seemed to consider. And then he nodded. “I agree with you.”

  Lyssa blinked, and felt herself jolt backwards a step. “You do?”

  He nodded again. “I do. We should leave this place. Soon.” A weird gleam entered his stare. “And quickest way to do that is victory.” The gleam became shivering and terrible. “Total, absolute victory.”

  The relief that’d sparked briefly to life in Lyssa’s mind died in a sickening douse of chill. “I...don’t understand how—”

  “Nothing will do but victory,” Bazul went on, his voice beginning to take on the trembling of his eyes. “I didn’t cross the Mid Sea, sack cities to secure a beachhead, and then fight my way all the way into the heart of the Nightmare Kingdom to turn around now, Adeptus. You sounded wise before. Certainly, you see it?”

  “But, without the Prince...”

  “Yes, it’s a problem, isn’t it?” His smile was terrible. “But you are of the White Guard, and I know your Order has solutions to such problems.”

  She blinked, stared at him a long time. “I don’t understand,” she said, and meant it.

  “Yes, you do,” he purred. The zeal swirled in his eyes, intermixing with a cold cunning that made Lyssa want to back away from him. “And now I begin to understand why that old crow Cyrok sent you, instead of someone more seasoned. He wanted to deprive me of tools.”

  “Sire...please, I really don’t understand.”

  He gave her a pitying look. “I have seen the Guard do remarkable things, in my time atop the Sunlit Throne. I have seen horrible hurts healed. I have seen inert objects brought to life.” The eyes flashed again. “And I have seen dead things walk.”

  Lyssa’s nerves shivered before an inward gust of cold. She took step backwards from the man, pushed by revulsion at the words. But at the same time, she knew the truth of them. The Guard did have such forbidden knowledge—though she’d never been a student of it herself. She knew they were capable of it. Blindly, she’d hoped they’d never actually done it. But standing here before the Emperor, now, hearing him demand it, she knew that hope had been false.

  “I-I can’t do that, Your Highness.”

  The grin remained in place, but he held up his chin. “I think you can. I think you will.”

  “It’s not a matter of will, sire. I literally do not possess the knowledge.”

  He sniffed and glanced around her tent. “You can’t find it one of these?” He nudged her grimoires, as though they were discussing something she’d misplaced.

  “It’s more than that!” she replied in a pleading voice. “This is beyond my power alone. Resurrection would require a Master—multiple Masters—working together, with the time and concentration to dedicate to it.” She pointed in the direction of Zadam. “And, sire, we’re the shadow of a place where these sorts of things have gone hideously wrong! Scintallos knows what such spell-casting might attract.”

  “I don’t need him brought back from the dead,” Bazul said coldly. “I just need that cold meat in the other tent walking and talking.”

  The ice in Lyssa’s veins warmed only slightly. “You mean a golem?”

  “I mean a puppet,” he replied, impatience growing. “I mean something convincing enough as Xass Kham leading his wing of the army, at least long enough to draw the Xyxians into another engagement to finish them. We’ll find another solution afterward.”

  Lyssa half-turned from the Emperor, hidin
g her expression—which would certainly give away that she did have knowledge of this.

  “Old Durothan did this for me,” Bazul said. “I know it’s possible.” He stepped a little closer. She felt him there. “You will do this for me. Lyssa.”

  She winced to have him call her by name—a tool twisted to apply leverage. “I...do know the spells.”

  “Good,” he purred.

  “But I’ve never done them,” she said, turning to face him. He was standing very close and her flesh nearly squirmed. By Scintallos, she’d once prayed to even get within ten feet, and now she wanted to flee from his presence! “I’ll need time to learn, to prepare.”

  “We have little time,” he said and set a hand upon her arm. He held her, skin warm, a real thing—not imagined! “You must begin immediately.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not the sort of thing you can learn by doing. This sort of work usually requires a specialist, assisted by an apprentice. If Olvan hadn’t—” she trailed off, swallowed. “What I’m saying, sire, is that you don’t just improvise this. Imperfection will give you an imperfect animation. The thing will be obvious as a thing!”

  “I don’t need excuses now,” Bazul replied with the return of impatience.

  “Not an excuse, sire! An explanation!”

  “Excuse,” he said, very coldly.

  “It’s not just the difficulty of the thing,” she went on, pleadingly, despite the chill in his voice. “This is dangerous work, sire. It will be dangerous to me. The Cosmos recoils at the living tampering with the dead.”

  “I’m not going to ask again.” Bazul stiffened to his full height, eyes sparkling with imperious anger. “You Emperor demands this.”

  “Father—”

  “Don’t.”

  Bazul’s hand on her arm squeezed, shot pain through Lyssa that caused her to squeak and fold over. The pressure intensified and she looked up at him through a film of tears, couldn’t resist otherwise.

  “Do not,” Bazul rasped, “ever presume upon that.” He released her and let her stagger back a step from him. “You are a member of the White Guard. You are a subject of the Scintallan Empire. You are one of my subjects.” He pointed at her. “You will do as you’re told.”

  “And I’m telling you.” Lyssa said, rubbing her arm. “I can’t promise I will succeed.”

  “You will,” he said. “Or I might have to take a closer look at how this whole debacle ensued. It’s your old friend amongst those who were supposed to be watching the ruins, isn’t it? Perhaps an example needs made. Perhaps he and his whole cohort should be decimated.”

  Lyssa flinched away, couldn’t let him see how hard that hit on the mark. She couldn’t look at him, either, the Emperor—her father. Loathing and revulsion swirled together within her. How could he ask this of her? How could she be of someone who’d ask this of her? Was this family? Abandonment and manipulation and leverage? Was this love?

  Was this what I would serve, rather than try to find another way, run off with someone who might actually want what I am...?

  “Lyssa.” Bazul’s voice had changed, warmed. But it rang of falseness, too, like he’d switched to an alternate part in a drama. “I don’t like doing this. Really, I don’t. But it’s the part I must play. Scintallos has made me Emperor to Bring His Light to The World.”

  “By flirting with dark powers?” she whispered—it was all she could manage.

  “By any means necessary,” he replied with some of his earlier harshness. But he softened the tone again. “You, too, are a child of the Resplendent One. You, too, have a part to play.”

  I am your child, she thought but did not say. She looked at Bazul and wanted to vomit at the sickly-sweet feigned smile on his glowering face. And if this is the best I can expect of you, can I truly expect better of a deity I’ve never seen?

  But she moved off, into the other tent. Bazul followed.

  Xass Kham’s corpse waited there, wrapped in the tent canvas. She stepped around it, eyed it from head to toe, and then looked up at the Emperor.

  “This is not an excuse,” she said as coldly as he had. “This is reality I’m about to tell you. You must understand. This work will drain me, distract me.” She sounded mechanical. It was the only way; machines didn’t feel. “You will be deprived of much of the defenses I otherwise would bring to the army.”

  “I understand,” he replied with a hint of satisfaction.

  You don’t, she thought, but knelt at the corpse’s side, put a hand on it. She didn’t quite sway with nausea, anticipating the grueling, gruesome work to come. “Then you should go,” she told him. “This will not be a safe place for your mind or soul in a moment.”

  The Emperor nodded and moved for the exit. He paused there. “Thank you. Lyssa.”

  She didn’t reply. And she didn’t look up to make certain he’d gone, simply began her work.

  CHAPTER SIX

  STRAYDEN WOKE UP THRASHING, his blanket roll twisted about him like the arms of a dead man. His skin crawled with the memory of a thousand eight-legged apparitions scuttling over every inch of his body. Except they swelled to enormous proportions and crushed his limbs with their weight. When he could finally stop himself, he still ached from contortions and the punishment of the previous night’s fight for his life.

  A slash of sunlight cut through a part in tent flaps and across his eyes when he opened them. Gah. He hurt and wanted to throw up and everywhere he looked, as he slowly pulled himself upright from the floor of his tent, he saw things moving, scrambling. A shake of his head left his vision wobbling with nightmares and the drink he’d guzzled to try and drown them. The urge to vomit intensified and he fumbled for his waterskin.

  “Captain,” a voice—Horsa’s—called tentatively from outside. “Captain, we need you.”

  Strayden let out a sound that could be either a belch or an acknowledgement. He uncorked the skin, took a drink, and winced as he realized it wasn’t water; it was straight wine. The taste of it gagged and that was the last outrage his gut could tolerate. He rolled over and vomited towards the entrance to the tent.

  And hit Horsa’s boot as the kid stepped in hesitantly. Eyes widening, he looked up from the mess. “S-sorry, Captain. I can come ba—”

  “Gruzh’s ball sack,” Strayden groaned, wiping his mouth clear. “What is it?”

  “Durrak sent me,” Horsa replied. “They’ve gotten roll called and formed up the men. He said we didn’t have more time, sent me to come and get you, wake you up.”

  Strayden tensed and felt for his axe. Everything from the previous night came tumbling back into his tortured braincase, not just the spider-terrors; the dead Xyxian and his own part in that. Lyssa had sent them away. Asyra had just vanished. And he’d gone back to camp to drink and stew and await consequences.

  Seemed that those had arrived.

  “What’s that you said?” Strayden asked, wincing as he got to his feet, the axe now clenched in his hand.

  “The cohort is formed,” Horsa replied. “The whole army’s forming up, too. Orders came at dawn. Looks like we’re moving out.”

  “Moving out...” Strayden peeled back the tent flap, flinched back at the blazing sun.

  Outside and all around, lines of men stood in formation expectantly. The air rang with horses and metal and men. Horn notes lilted to the sky and orders bawled hoarsely.

  The lads of the Fifth were waiting in the midst of this buzz of activity, squinting and sweating, in full kit with helmets on and mail over their shoulders. Durrak was prowling before them, mumbling something as he fingered the axe resting on his shoulder. The Nuburran’s eyes narrowed as they came to rest upon him, sparkled with anger, even as some of the lads saw him and smiles and chuckles spread through the ranks.

  He’d been doing Strayden’s job, while he slept off his drunk—despite probably getting little sleep, himself.

  “I can help you into your gear, Captain,” Horsa offered.

  “There’s been no other word?”
Strayden rasped at the kid, disbelieving. “No one else has come looking for me?” He’d expected the Provost Guards—or the Royal Strangler.

  “Just orders.” Horsa set a hand on his arm, tugged him halfway back towards the tent.

  “I might have known!” a voice boomed, accompanied by hoofbeats.

  Strayden winced again and turned back to the front of the formation. Harald Hegruum, mounted atop a passable-looking horse and riding passably—he was one of the few Vothans Strayden knew who willingly did so—reined in before the Fifth. He was in the finest mail coat the Emperor’s armory could provide, silver-chased links brushed to painful shine, and the sun flashed off a burnished, horsehair-plumed helm. Glowering eyes scanned the cohort briefly with vague distaste before they took in Strayden’s disheveled state.

  “You were always the last man up,” Harald called down to him, “even when I served under you!”

  Strayden forced a glare as the lads chortled at Harald’s words, lifted his axe and let it rest at his shoulder. “Had work last night,” he replied, “the guard post, as you know. I was busy, while you were dining and combing your beard.”

  “Oh, I heard,” Harald said, with a snap to his words.

  Strayden’s nerves tingled. Was this it? By now, word of the disaster must’ve reached the Guard Commander. Had Harald come to settle the account himself? Fingering his axe, Strayden said, “I’ll bet you did.”

  Harald nudged his horse a few steps closer, till he loomed over Strayden. His glower persisted, but his hands remained at the reins, hadn’t made any move towards his weapons. He glanced at Horsa. “Leave us.”

  The kid shot Strayden a glance before fleeing to the ranks of the Fifth. Durrak was watching them with an intense stare.

  Harald urged his mount closer still, the stink of leather and horsehair tickling Strayden’s nostrils, but its mass blocking his view of the lads, as well as providing some privacy for them to speak. Lowering his voice, and leaning over slightly, Harald said, “You sent little word of your errand last night.”