Empire of the Worm (22 page)

Davril’s friends and allies
gathered about him on the terrace, muttering in awe at the sight. Just to stand
on the terrace was to feel the heat of the light pouring from the lens, and
Davril and his party stepped back, away from it.

“Look at that,” the Lady whispered,
her eyes entranced by the sight.

“Amazing,” said Elimhas.

“But it won’t be enough to kill
him,” said Trisdan.

Davril looked over his shoulder to
see the massive, blackened egg, flaming and smoking, sitting amidst the
contraption that harnessed its light.

Uulos fought it, rallying Himself. Several
amorphous, almost formless limbs stretched out from the main bulk and snatched
up a dozen slaves in a one great sweep. The men screamed, but they had no
chance. Uulos drew them into His shadowy bulk, a bulk that could not be seen
and did not appear to be completely solid, and their screaming ceased. His
might swelled.

The light speared him, and He
screamed. The earth shook, and several of the Lerumites erupted in gore. The
gathered Sedremerans were in chaos, some locked in orgy, some in murder, some
in both. The whole gathering was a roiling, thrusting, growling mass.

Uulos scooped up another round of
prisoners and stuffed them into His unseen maw or maws. The red light lanced
Him, and He shuddered, trembled . . . grew stronger.

Suddenly the beam of light
blackened
, starting at Uulos and
spreading like rot up the lance of illumination toward the House of Light.

“No . . .” Davril said, but there
was no time to do anything about it. Almost instantly the blackness shot past
him and into the inner workings of the Light-House. There came a crash, and the
beam of light broke off.

Davril whirled to see the mirrors
breaking, one by one, the impact of the blast shattering them in turn. Hundreds
of shards of broken glass winked off the floor, each veined with black.

“
Damn
,” Davril said. For a moment he’d allowed himself to feel hope.

“It’s no use,” Elimhas muttered.
“Until the egg is quickened . . .”

Father Trisdan clutched the Lost
Books to his chest. “Soon,” he said.

“My lord!” a soldier called out.
“Look!”

Davril hobbled over to where the
man pointed down toward a line of riders approaching the Asqrit compound.

“The General,” Davril said, heart
sinking. In the distance, the amorphous mass that was Uulos grew strong once
more. Freed from the lance of light, It turned darker, more solid, and Davril
could feel the Thing stretch Its mind in his direction . . .

“We must leave,” he said. “We may
not have defeated Uulos, but we got what we came for.”

The priests saw to moving the Jewel
to the litter it had been borne on and securing it there with blessed chains. Then,
holding his dagger in one hand, Davril limped to the stairs and down. As a
precaution, he had ordered several boats drawn up to the docks near the base of
the House of Light, and now he made his way toward them. Waves crashed and
broke along the rocky shore, tossing spray high into the air as Davril led the
way to the jetty. Along the outer wall of the Asqrit compound, on the far side
of the House of Light, his soldiers held the General’s forces off. Davril knew
they could not last for long, and he lamented their sacrifice.

Just as he reached the boats and
cast off, the sounds of battle faded.
I’m
sorry, my friends
, he thought.
You
died to save the Jewel.
Almost immediately, commotion sounded in the Tower
above, and fire-lights flickered in the highest rooms. Another fiery light
shifted from window to window, going downward.

“They’re burning the Light-House,”
Elimhas breathed. To Davril’s surprise, tears stood out in his eyes. “They’ve
broken through and are
burning the
Light-House
.”

The great building was of stone,
but its inner supports were wooden, and fire soon licked up from its insides, smoke
pouring from its windows to obscure the stars. In moments the ancient Tower was
one great, flaming mass stabbing high into the black night, smoke curling off
it in billowing waves.

“It’s gone,” Elimhas said. “I did
not think . . . I guess they have no reason to keep it any longer, do they? The
city is His.”

With the burning Temple in the
background, a tall, broad-shouldered, silver-haired figure marched over the
rocks and out onto the peer. Davril rose from the center of the craft, and
though it rocked below him he stood firm. Fists at his sides, he glared at the
figure, and the figure returned the look steadily.

“You’ve lost,” General Hastus called
across the choppy water. “You came close, my son, but you have lost!”

Davril wanted to hurl some
rejoinder, some invective, but in his heart he knew his father-in-law was
correct. Uulos had won. The time of the Light was over. The time of the Worm
had begun. And so he said nothing as the night thickened, and the figure of
General Hastus faded into the darkness where it belonged.

And, to the east, in Sraltar Square, the darkness atop the
pyramid solidified, and the Shape inside stirred. Grew strong. The sacrifices
continued, one after another, to slake the appetite of the Worm.

Uulos had returned.

BOOK THREE:

REIGN

Chapter
17

The boats took Davril and his party into a grotto filled
with mist and resounding to the echo of the slurp and slap of water. The grotto
emptied into a dark, narrow, winding channel that fed the sewers, and from
there it was not difficult to find the Avestines’ tunnels.
The sewers
, Davril thought glumly, looking around at the
slime-covered walls.
Home at last.

Trying to contain his bitterness,
he brought his little gathering into the Avestine tunnels, thence into the
baths, and together they washed away their stench.

Wesrai approached, looking
tentative. “How did it go, my lord?”

“I’ll tell all soon enough,” Davril
said. “I only want to say it once. Is there news?”

Wesrai grimaced. “Only that some altars
were found, hidden in secret passages.”

“Altars? Let me guess. To Uulos.”

Wesrai passed a shaky hand across
his face. “There were several . . . sacrifices.”

Davril nodded wearily, then
dismissed Wesrai. When he and his men were done with their baths, he summoned a
gathering of his highest-ranking soldiers and various rebels, many of whom were
Avestine. Looking about him at their tight faces, as braziers blazed and made
the chamber walls turn the color of blood, he wondered how many of these people
he could trust. Just how many spies had the Lerumites placed among his flock? One?
A hundred? A thousand? There was no way to know.

“Men,” he said, “and women.” Alyssa
was there, looking pale and worried like everyone else. No official
announcement had gone out, but they had heard the rumors. They could probably feel
the truth shimmering greasily on the air. The taint of Uulos was strong. Davril
could taste it on his tongue.

“We recovered the Lost Books,” he
said, “but the Light-House was burned, and Uulos has returned.” He stared at
them for a long time as they absorbed this, their faces pale, and he found
himself uncertain how to proceed.
Flee
,
he almost said.
Take your families and
flee the city. Get as far as you can, as fast as you can. You won’t get far,
but you will last longer than if you stay here.

Instead, he said, “We still have a
chance. We have both the Jewel and the Books. Also, the Worm and his agents
don’t know where we are. However, there may be agents among us. That’s why,
from this moment forward, I’m sealing the tunnels. No one gets in. No one gets
out.” There was some muttering at this, but Davril nodded to Jeselri, who stood
next to him, and the Patriarch returned the nod wanly. “It’s the only way,”
Davril said. “If we can keep our location secret, we may still get the chance
to strike. I need you to be brave. Strong. The others look to you for guidance,
and I need you to give them that. Do not waver. Do not show fear. The war
continues, and it will not be lost—as long as we oppose the Worm.” He lifted
his fist over his head.
“Death to the
Worm!”

His men lifted their fists and
repeated the words, but he could hear the hollowness in their voices, see the
fear in their eyes.

As the group broke up, he sighed
and turned to Jeselri. “Thank you,” he said. “I did not mean to usurp your
authority.”

“Our fates are tied to yours, Lord
Husan. You must succeed, or—well. ”

Davril clapped him on the shoulder.
“See to sealing the tunnels.”

“No one will enter or leave, my
lord.” Jeselri, head bowed, moved away.

Alyssa approached and drew Davril
to the side. “Is it so bad as all this?” she said. She stared into his eyes,
begging for a lie, and he gave it to her.

“It will be fine,” he said. “Uulos
may have destroyed the Tower, but we still have the Jewel. Even if Uulos were
to steal it back, He’s not strong enough yet to swallow it.”

She nodded, and a tear spilled from
her blue-green eyes and coursed over her perfect cheek. He tucked a strand of
her curly blond hair back behind an ear and kissed her forehead.

“It’ll be all right,” he said
again.

She just nodded silently, her mouth
tightly closed. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with water. She
broke away and returned to her escorts, followed by her guards.

Grim days passed, and Davril’s spies and scouts reported
that Uulos had established himself in Sraltar Square and that storm clouds
shaded him constantly. Just as constantly, a line of sacrifices was marched
from the various prisons to him, and he consumed them one after another, never
ceasing. With each one, he grew stronger, and the darkness that radiated from
him grew darker, too.

The insane asylums of Sedremere,
and indeed of all Qazradan, overflowed with new inmates, as many were driven
mad by the presence of the Worm. Some who didn’t go mad reported strange,
nightmarish dreams, and others claimed to have these dreams during the waking
hours.

The air shimmered, blurred, and
reality twisted violently. Davril felt it, too.

Meanwhile, more reports detailed
how General Hastus’s persecution of Sedremerans had intensified. He was
rounding men and women up at random and torturing them to death in the city
squares, sometimes not even bothering to ask them questions. Whether any
revealed the location of the Avestines’ tunnels, or whether any knew it, Davril
didn’t know. He could only bide his time until the moment to strike.

One day a runner came up to Davril
and said, “Father Trisdan wishes to see you.”

Davril found the priest in an
abandoned chamber that had been converted into a chapel to the Light, or Flame,
call it what one would—all four sects, each with its own corner. There were
idols of the Phoenix, bas-reliefs of the stars and moon, and tapestries of the
sky. In their separate corners, the priests knelt, surrounded by their
followers, all praying softly, heads bowed to their altars, begging aid from
Asqrit, Behara, Illyria and Tiat-sumat. Around each of the altars stood spears
and bows and arrows, swords and daggers and lances, all the weapons the priests
had used the Jewel to bless. The weapons seemed to glow faintly, and they gave
off a feeling of wholesomeness. It was no wonder the followers grouped around
them and prayed.

As for the Jewel itself, it was in
an adjoining room, sealed off from the public by a thick stone door. Only
Davril and a few others had copies of the key that opened that door; the Jewel
must be kept safe and secure. It was the only hope they had.

Reassured by the soft sounds of
prayer, Davril waited, feeling the warmth and peace of the place wash across
him, driving away the lingering taint of the Worm. He felt lighter, clearer
here, and though he didn’t know if it was real or not, he welcomed it.

At last Father Trisdan noticed him
and left his flock in care of another priest, hobbling over to Davril. Trisdan
looked eager, his eyes bright, his withered cheeks flushed. “I have good news,
my lad. Good news indeed.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll show you.”

He removed a key from his robes and
accompanied Davril over to the thick stone door that sealed the chamber where
the Jewel was kept. He unlocked the door, had his attendants shove it open—the
door was monstrously heavy—and led the way inside. Wonderingly, Davril
followed.

The Jewel stood in the center of
the room: a great ovoid stone, ancient and crusted, wreathed in fire. Smoke
billowed off it in great waves, disappearing through the ventilation shaft
above.

But the flames . . . the flames
were
higher
. And the burning core of
the egg unmistakably brighter.

At Davril’s expression, Father
Trisdan laughed. “Yes, my boy! we’ve done it! Well, the Books did most of the
work. At any rate, we’ve quickened the egg. Using the lost rites, we’ve managed
to reinvigorate the Jewel.”

“It will pose a threat to the
Worm?”

“Oh yes.”

Davril held his hands out, feeling
the warmth the egg gave off. “But the Light-House is destroyed. How can we use
it?”

Trisdan frowned. “That I can’t rightly
say. If nothing else, the Worm will no longer be able to devour it.”

“That’s something.”

For a long moment, the priest said
nothing, just gazed lovingly at the Jewel. At last he said, “I suppose Uulos
could
still swallow it. But he could
only swallow it whole. If it were punctured while inside him, its power would
fill him. Kill him. Perhaps that could be a strategy of last resort—to allow
the Worm to swallow it, then to use of our blessed spears to stab him and
puncture it.” A dark look crossed his face, and his stooped shoulders sagged. “It
would mean the death of the Jewel, though. And the Life inside it.” A moment
passed. “Now that it’s stronger, we will be able to bless more and greater
weapons. That in itself should aid our side.”

“And should Uulos swallow the Jewel
and it’s not punctured?”

“When Uulos is strong enough, and
that will be soon, I think, and after He has the Jewel—for we cannot keep it
from Him indefinitely—He will swallow it and absorb its strength. He must
swallow it whole, as I said, and digest it slowly, and when it’s gone, when Tiat-sumat
or His Son is dead—” (his swallowed) “—and Uulos is grown fat and mighty on His
essence, the Worm’s influence will spread unchecked, and the Light will fade
from the universe. The Sun will dim, the stars will gray, and Uulos and his
darkness will rule all, and there will be no place for men, save as morsels,
sport and slaves for the lowest of Uulos’s servants—for He will raise them. When
He puts forth His new, stolen power, His most wicked allies will wriggle forth
from their holes. He will have no more need of man. He will begin his empire
anew, in a black, lightless, unholy world populated by monstrous things with no
sane form.” The priest’s bony fists trembled, and his hawkish eyes blazed with
fury; he could not go on.

“So you believe the Jewel truly is Tiat-sumat.”

Trisdan pursed his ancient lips. “In
truth, I think the egg is beyond human comprehension, just as Uulos is. They
existed before mankind rose from the slime and are beyond our ken. But I still
revere the egg, for it is the enemy of Uulos.”

“When will He be strong enough to
swallow it?”

Air blew out raggedly from
Trisdan’s sharp, craggy nose. “I cannot give you a day, my lord, but by the
taint in the air I would judge it to be very soon now. Very soon indeed.”

Davril frowned as he stared down at the vast assembly. Tens
of thousands of Avestines, rebels and refugees had gathered in the great hall where
the Priests of the Serpent had preached to their flock. Now the Order of the
Serpent was gone, and the people of Ave had no gods to believe in, to comfort
them in this dark time. Davril had received reports that numerous Avestines had
in secret reverted to the worship of the Serpent, and that in solemn ceremonies
in dark, forgotten caverns they would sacrifice one of their number upon a
small altar in the shape of a serpent. He had strictly forbidden this, and even
now his men sought to stamp the practice out, but for the moment it continued.

The majority of the Avestines had
set aside the darkness, but until recently they had nothing to replace it with.
Over the past few weeks, since the burning of the Light-House and the return of
Uulos, Fathers Trisdan, Elimhas and the Lady of Behara had gone among them and
preached the gospel of the Light, and many had converted. The Age of Darkness
had come at last, the time when the Worm would rule, and many turned to the
Light to drive back that darkness, to provide some semblance of hope.

Davril listened as the priests and
the priestess took turns on the highest tier on that mountain of daises at the
head of the room, each preaching his or her own gospel, one at a time. Each
worked to make their preaching serve all faiths, so they would not confuse the Avestines
or cause doubt among them. Just the same, there were many non-Avestines among
those gathered, people who had already accepted one faith or another, and so
the priests and the priestesses had to make sure not to alienate their own
flock. It was tricky going, and Davril almost enjoyed listening to the priests
navigate that tight line, except that it meant that the end of the world had
come, or at least the end of man.

Watching the tens of thousands kneel
and pray, Davril said, “I’ve had enough of the Apocalypse for the moment.”

Jeselri, who sat beside him, nodded
but didn’t stand to leave. His eyes were distant and faraway, though they too
gazed down at the worshippers. “It’s a bitter thing, my friend, to see your
people change.”

Davril paused. “It bothers you,
seeing the Avestines worship the Flame?”

Jeselri frowned. Nodded. They sat
in a gallery overlooking the vast hall, where doubtless the Avestine
aristocrats had sat in days gone by, before they had been slaughtered in the
uprising that had slain the priests. “I never liked the Order,” he said. “I
always shuddered to see my people bow to the Serpent—to dress in scales, to
file their teeth, to murder the innocent. Still, it seemed natural. I and
thousands of generations before did the same in our time. It’s the way I was
raised, though I broke from it at last. But it’s the way things were
supposed
to be, if you see what I mean,
or at least it seemed so, before you came. We never would have changed on our
own, my friend. You forced it on us. And it will never seem natural to me to
see my people bow to the bird, or the moon, or the stars above, or some burning
egg, but . . .” He sighed. “I like it little better than the worship of the
Serpent. I suppose my children’s children’s children will think it natural
enough, even destined to be, and they will think back in disgrace on the dark
times and the dark people that bowed to a monster, who slaughtered their own
people to slake Its hunger . . .”