Blades of the Demigod King

by James Derry

  The other young man scooped his hat off of the street and then clutched it to his own chest. “No! That man is the liar, Your Majesty! He is spreading lies about your mighty sword!”

  “Explain what you mean.” Pawn pointed to the man who had called him ‘Your Majesty.’ “You first.”

  The young man blinked and worked his jaw. Jamal couldn’t tell if this was because he was alleviating some injury he’d sustained in the fight, or if it was because he was suddenly gone stiff speaking with his sovereign. Finally the young man said, “My uncle crafted your fine sword. But Urkai”—he pointed to the other fellow— “has been claiming that his father crafted your sword. It’s a lie!”

  “You are lying!” Urkai screamed. “And besmirching the name of my father, Bulch the Sulfurous!”

  King Pawn rubbed his jaw. “So one of you claims that his father made my sword. And the other claims that his uncle did the deed? This is quite a riddle.”

  “Oh,” Jamal said. “Can I try?” He pointed to the two young men. “Are you two cousins?”

  “No!” they shouted.

  Pawn seemed amused by the triviality of the whole affair. He brandished his sword and held it over his head so that the iridescent pommel showed down on them. “All right. The true blacksmith would know the provenance of every component of my sword. Can either of you tell me the source of this strange azure mineral?”

  Urkai instantly brightened and hopped in place. “I know!”

  Pawn pointed Endbringer to the other young man. “Do you know?”

  The young man dropped his head and stared at the street. “My uncle did not tell me that. He does not reveal the secrets of his trade.”

  Urkai laughed, very eager to spill any ‘trade secrets’ to the gathered crowd. “My father said that the jewel came from very far away… It is a hunk of the polished interior of the tube of a giant tube worm. A vestige from the Strider Between Worlds!”

  The excitable crowd had gasped at Jamal’s mention of Tallasmanak. Now they practically swooned at the mention of an Ancient One. Pawn nodded proudly, and the glimmering blue gem seemed to wink at the throng of admirers.

  The hag who had demanded that Jamal be burdened with a red shirt now focused her ire on Urkai’s rival. She shook her scrawny fist. “Arrest the liar!”

  The young man suddenly turned ashen. Another person shouted, “Send him to the labor camps!”

  Pawn chuckled and raised his hand. “No! We will not punish this man. I’m sure his uncle is a fine blacksmith. Present yourself to the steward at the gates of the citadel. I will have him send you a new anvil for your uncle. It is made with a new substance called lead, and might be the densest mineral in all the world.“

  The crowd murmured excitedly, as if they knew what ‘dense’ meant.

  “And you.” Pawn pointed to the now slightly less triumphant Urkai. “I’ll have an anvil prepared for your Bulch the Sulfurous as well.”

  The crowd cheered, having felt properly entertained by the sovereign’s justice. Jamal felt giddy as well. Most of the forms of justice he’d seen in Embhra had focused on ‘entertaining’ by publicly torturing or humiliating the accused.

  “And if there is nothing more…”

  A new voice rose up. “Wait! Your Majesty!”

  “Yes?”

  The crowd parted to reveal a small man with a half-crown of wiry black hair surrounding the top of his bald skull.

  “What is your name, good citizen?”

  “I am Balazul, Your Majesty. I own an inn just outside of the Academy. I have hosted many fine dignitaries there. But recently my finest bedrooms were infested by a foul, nocturnal demon. I need a brave, skilled warrior to drive the creature away. Or my business will be ruined.”

  Pawn considered this. He asked, “Is the demon an incubus or succubus?”

  Balazul blinked. “A succubus, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh.” The Demigod King smiled. “Then I will investigate personally.”

  A flutter of knowing laughter rose up among the men of the audience.

  In a low voice, Pawn asked Jamal, “What do you say, Groundbreaker? Would you join me on this new quest?”

  “I don’t know,” Jamal grimaced. He didn’t like the idea of disappointing the Demigod King in the midst of his adoring public. “But my religion says—”

  “The alpha-protagonist thing?” Pawn asked. “But this is not a life-or-death situation. Do you know what happens when a succubus gets the best of you?”

  “No… I…”

  Pawn smiled slyly. “Let’s just say it will provide a nice diversion from your troubles with Sygne.” He raised his voice to address the crowd. “It’s settled then. Two virile men to tangle with the succubus!”

  The crowd roared lustily, and Jamal wondered what he had gotten himself into.

  10 – The Study of Phrens

  King Pawn and Mentor Abb Xyn escorted Sygne to a basement floor of the Symposia; then through a heavy, locked door. Sygne had been nearly everywhere on the Academy campus, but she had never been to this particular subterranean level. The corridors were dark and musty, and the bearded sage led the way with a lamp attached to a wheeled pole (one of his own inventions). The gloom closed in behind her as they passed through the hall, sealing them in silence—as if the darkness was some mystical buffer protecting some eldritch secret. Some awful secret. Sygne didn’t like to indulge superstitious impulses, but nevertheless chills came rolling up her spine, again and again.

  Abb Xyn stopped at a door at the end of the passage. The rolling of tumblers in a large combination lock (another one of Abb Xyn’s designs), and the door peeled back to reveal another pitch-black space. The Mentor shuffled along the walls of the square room, lighting sconces, and slowly the interior resolved itself into shapes. A heavy table squatted in the center of the room. It was surrounded by several tall apparatuses with claws and clamps protruding from them. They looked like praying mantises in the gloaming light. Pawn stepped closer to her, as if to comfort her, as if he expected her to be frightened by the eerie shapes.

  Among the poles and clamps Sygne saw the outline of a man’s head and shoulders. She nearly jumped at that, but she quickly realized that she was seeing a clay bust set to eye-level on a tall pedestal. Her eyes drifted back to the table in the center of the room. There was something there… Something messy and out of place. She recognized the strong, noxious fumes of embalming chemicals.

  A deformed shape on the table. Tufts of unruly hair. The silhouette of crude features that together almost resembled…

  It was a head. On the table. A real, decapitated head.

  She shrieked, and Pawn put his hands on her shoulders as Abb Xyn hurried to close the heavy door behind them.

  “Quiet, girl. It’s only a caveman’s head,” Pawn said.

  Mentor Abb Xyn made a ‘tsk’ sound. “You’ve seen cadavers before, Sygne. There’s no reason for you to call attention—”

  “Yes. Cadavers in an operating theater. Or in a dissection lab. Under a skylight. Surrounded by scientists. Not tucked away in a dungeon… not like this!”

  “This is not a dungeon!” Abb Xyn sniffed. “This is one of our confidential laboratories. Novices and visitors are not allowed here, but the Demigod King asked that you be allowed in. Now I would—”

  “Yes, yes, Mentor,” Pawn raised a soothing hand. “Let us concentrate on the subject at hand. If we explain to Sygne our purposes today, then I am sure she will calm right away.”

  At the prompting of the Demigod King, Abb Xyn began again. Sygne could sense him attempting to shift toward his comfort zone, easing into a bloviating, didactic tone. “Yes. What we are doing here today has never been attempted at the Academy. We have never applied our science in quite this way. We are exploring human anatomies—human neurologies—and ultimately using that knowledge to better all of society.”

  Pawn was clearly enthusiastic. “Tell her about our inspiration.”

&n
bsp; Mentor Abb Xyn cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to tell her, Your Majesty.”

  Pawn leapt at the chance. He beamed at Sygne. “You were the inspiration, Sygne Eugenia.” Sygne shook her head slowly and vaguely. Pawn did not notice. He barreled ahead. “You were always complaining about how the Academy knows so much, and yet they don’t use that knowledge to make the world a better place.”

  Sygne eyed Mentor Abb Xyn. She wished that Pawn had been more diplomatic with his description of her criticisms. Also, she didn’t like the idea that her complaints had somehow led to this head stowed in a basement. Part of her wanted to ask if this troglodyte had died naturally before he had become a specimen, but she was afraid of the answer.

  “But men like Abb Xyn”—Pawn nodded to the bearded sage—“and Mentor Astrigra. Mentor Jabira. They told me that it is too idealistic, even too arrogant, to think that anyone can change the world. Even my father, he was always a mis-antelope, deep down in his heart.”

  Sygne murmured, “I think you meant ‘misanthrope.’”

  Pawn continued, “He thought that his city could be led, but not changed. But do you remember when you told me that we can change the world, if we change people’s minds? I took that to heart. Or to brain, to be more scientific.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sygne said. “You’re planning to change people’s brains?”

  “Yes. Well, in the long run,” the Demigod King said. “Let me ask you a question, Sygne. If you gathered a herd of horses, and you wanted to make those horses faster—for your children and your children’s children—what would you do?”

  Sygne's vague shake of her head turned into a full-on, nauseated sway. She glanced to the decapitated head on the table, then to the clay model of a man’s cranium elevated on a pedestal nearby. “No… You’re not.” Sygne turned to the Abb Xyn. “You should know better than this. Human beings are not livestock. You can’t breed them to be—”

  Pawn interrupted, “But you can! The Gjuirans are very proficient at breeding their slaves, making them taller and stronger and more docile—they say. And the results of their efforts are clearly visible.”

  “You cannot selectively breed humans, Pawn. You should not. It is wrong.”

  “Oh,” the Demigod King said. “Perhaps it is the term ‘breeding.’ That does have some bad connotations to it. And this is about more than just propagation. Mentor, tell her that other term you came up with.”

  Abb Xyn cleared his throat. “We’re calling it eugenics.”

  “No,” said Sygne Eugenia. “I won’t have my name associated with this.”

  “Sygne,” Abb Xyn said. “This system we are devising is not as brutish as what slaveholders do. We are not forcibly pairing together mates. We would not drown babies who don’t fit the mold. But we can establish certain incentives in Albatherra—and certain disincentives—that can make a huge impact on how the citizenry develops over the next hundred years. We will encourage certain types of minds to flourish. Open minds. Capacious minds. Think of it as pre-education. We could stamp out intolerance in Albatherra. And superstition. Perhaps even envy and greed.”

  “That is insane. An insane way to go about things,” Sygne said. “All minds have equal potential.”

  Mentor Abb Xyn stared at her flatly. “You know that isn’t true.”

  Pawn sighed. “We didn’t explain the empirical part.” He pointed to the troglodyte cranium. “You think this is impossible because you don’t know there is a way to measure a person’s brain. To measure his intellect, his capacity for good.” Pawn picked up the embalmed head and turned it so that the protrusions along the caveman’s brow and crown were clearly visible. “We can all agree—can’t we—that troglodytes are the farthest thing possible from the perfect ideal of humanity? Violent and small-minded and tribal. And so this specimen represents the bottom end of our scale. Now Mentor Abb Xyn has shown me several common features of skulls that show proper mindfulness—the development of a proper brain. He calls the study ‘phrenology,’ which you may be surprised to learn, is not the study of phrens.”

  Sygne stepped closer to the clay bust. A pair of calipers rested on the corner of its pedestal. “And is this your ideal cranium? Mentor Abb Xyn, this looks a bit like a shaved version of your head.”

  Abb Xyn smiled self-consciously. “It is.”

  “We are in the process of measuring dozens of skulls and testing cognitive ability in dozens of subjects.” Pawn patted the Mentor on his narrow shoulder. “But why not start with the best?”

  “Will you study a mold of Mentor Jabira’s skull?” she asked, exasperated. “What about Mentor Shen Yong. Will you exhume—”

  She stopped as she saw a flinch pass over Pawn’s face. They had dug up Shen Yong’s corpse to study her skull. Did Shen Qu know about this? It was no wonder that they were keeping all of this a secret.

  Sygne glanced to her feet. She had to be careful here. Alone in this basement with these deranged men. When she glanced up, she could have sworn that Pawn had been leaning sideways to stare at the back of her head—at the way her skull curved beneath her clipped hair.

  She cleared her throat. “I have to admit: it’s an intriguing theory. I’m just not convinced—yet—that it could actually work. I… Why don’t we go upstairs and discuss this over dinner?”

  “Ah,” Abb Xyn said. “This is a very sensitive matter, we need to remain extremely surreptitious about all of this.”

  Sygne glanced to Pawn, who nodded at the Abb Xyn.

  She said, “Surreptitious. Yes. I know that’s how you like to operate. And absolutely. I can be very discreet.”

  Pawn slipped his hand around Sygne’s wrist. His grip was as hard as bronze; she didn’t bother fighting against it. He smiled apologetically at her.

  “Oh,” Pawn said, “we will be sure of that.”

  With that, Abb Xyn slipped close and put a needle into Sygne’s arm. She yelped as it pierced her skin.

  “What was that?”

  “Another one of my inventions.” The Mentor grinned apologetically. He continued talking, explaining some principle of biology or pneumatics. Something about a concentrate of Mizzuline opium, directly injected into a stream of blood under her skin. Sygne couldn’t understand him, she was too busy collapsing to the floor.

  11 – The Succubus

  King Pawn and Jamal dragged a mob of commoners behind them, like a massive, motley pageant. The crowd wound through the streets until they arrived at Balazul’s inn, protruding from the Academy’s massive curve wall like a stout handle from an urn.

  The diminutive inn-keeper pointed to the front door; then he fled into the safety of the crowd. While strolling, Pawn had told Jamal more about the habits of a succubus, and now Jamal felt puzzled that Balazul seemed so terrified.

  Jamal spoke in a low voice so that the people behind him couldn’t hear. “Let me see if I understand. This inn is haunted by a beautiful phantom that will seduce any man, enthrall him with an entire night’s worth of pleasure, and then leave him be in the morning? And why would Balazul want to get rid of such a spirit?”

  Pawn smirked. “Because he is the proprietor of a hotel, not a brothel. Also, a succubus is not a ‘spirit,’ it is more of a demon. It feeds on the minds of mortals. Leaves them unconscious and weakened for days afterward.”

  Jamal studied the flaking walls of the loam-brick building. He saw now that this would be a resting-place for well-to-do families visiting their Scholar children. Or perhaps merchants or aspiring luminaries who had business at the school, but not quite enough clout to earn a stay within the Academy, or at Pawn’s Citadel. More adventurous or less affluent guests would have stayed in a tent in the Garden Reach. This establishment was aspiring to deliver convenience and prosaic comfort. A succubus went against both of those precepts.

  “Where do they come from?”

  “Oh, no mortal knows for sure. I’m working on creating a department within the Academy that stud
ies the origins of such creatures. Demons and djinn and efrit and naiads. You’ve heard of ghost-gods?”

  “Gods that lost all of their followers.”

  “That’s right. Either through subjugation or assimilation or some plague or cataclysm. They find themselves alone and forgotten, roaming Embhra in search of any morsels of human faith on which to feed. My theory is that succubi are ghost-gods. Former love-goddesses, to be exact.”

  “Balazul probably wasn’t keeping up the installments on his mystical exclusion policy, and so the succubus slipped in like a rat in the pantry.”

  “That’s it. Which makes us the exterminators.” Pawn handed Jamal half of the jawbone of a donkey. The jagged end had been ground down to make it as sharp as possible. The other end was wrapped with dried animal tendons to make a hand-grip.

  “What is this?” Jamal asked. “A caveman weapon?”

  “That’s right. The succubus cannot be harmed by regular weapons. Metal or wood. Only faunal materials can touch it.”

  “Fauns?” Jamal thought of Pawn’s list of mystical entities.

  “No. ‘Faunal’ as in ‘fauna.’ ‘Of animals.’” Pawn held out a leather flail. “See? Leather. Bone.”

  Jamal turned his ungainly weapon this way and that. From every angle it was ugly. Awkward to swing. He asked, “Where did you get a caveman weapon?”

  “Oh, we sought them out. I took a small brigade to a village up in the steppes that had been pestered by a trog tribe. They were more than happy to let us go in there and drag all of the brutes away.” Pawn stretched his flail between two fists. “Monster slayers, huh? There’s plenty of work for us in the Golden Empires.”

  Jamal said, “Let’s get started.”

  ***

  The inn was dark. Deserted. The aroma of jasmine hung in the air. The dirt floors were neat and tidy—relatively, considering that they were dirt floors. The ground had been swept so much that it was almost polished. Balazul was extremely fastidious.

  Each room had a curtain for a door. Pawn crouched in the dim hallway. “It’s near twilight—the time when the demon first returns to our corporeal realm, but when she is still weak. She could appear in any of these rooms. Perhaps we should split up—”