The King of the Vile (2 page)

“Here we go,” he said, and then before anything like reason or sanity could take hold, he dashed into the water. His entrance was clumsy, desperate, and within moments he felt the water pulling on him. At first he thought he’d be fine, but when his feet lost touch with the bottom, he flailed his arms and kicked his legs. It was less of a swim and more of a lunge that pushed him toward the other side. The rucksack was heavy on his back, too heavy. Each time his head dipped below the water he found himself struggling a little bit harder to push back to the surface.

Minutes passed, and his lungs began to burn from the struggle. The darkness made it difficult to tell, but he swore the far side was coming no closer. He was lost in the center of the river, dragged along with its current. Panic struck him, and at last he let go of his pack. With its weight gone, he frantically swam toward the other side.

Cold and wet, he crawled onto the wet earth and collapsed. He felt the mud curling beneath his fingers, and he dared not think of what bugs and leeches might be sinking into his flesh for a meal. Shivers followed, and he closed his eyes and let the sobs begin. He cried for his family, his wife, his home, the loss of everything. And for what?

For what?

A sudden warmth came over him. He looked up, feeling dread but not understanding why. He wasn’t at the river anymore, and his clothes were dry. A growing rumble met his ears, and he realized he was in the midst of a crowd. The sun had risen, and on either side of the street were towering buildings made of crystal and glass. Thousands upon thousands streamed deeper into the elegant, otherworldly city.

Confused, Alric followed, feeling compelled to join the crowd. At the end of the road he came upon a castle, which faded away to reveal a great throne. The seat was carved of gold, sitting atop a red dais covered with fine silk. Just staring at it made Alric feel afraid. And then from the sky came a man of shadow, his features barren, his eyes empty white spaces. With shoulders hunched as if carrying a great burden, he sat upon the throne. A heavy crown formed upon his head, coated with jewels and bathed in silver. Half the crowd cheered, the other half cried in terror. Not understanding either, Alric watched in rapt awe.

The shadows of this king deepened. The red dais flowed, the silk turning to blood. The gold of the throne peeled away, revealing washed bone. The jewels of the crown became eyes, the silver their moving tears. Louder the crowd screamed as the shadow king lifted a scepter. The ground rumbled. The crystal buildings shattered and fell. The sun and moon danced in the sky, the sun rising in the west and setting in the east. Through it all the people screamed, and Alric found himself screaming with them.

Like a flood came the fire, washing over the people, pooling around the throne and lifting it into the air. The liquid flame burned away Alric’s flesh, left his hands blackened husks. Nostrils filled with the stench of burning meat, eyes flooded with smoke, Alric looked upon the shadow king and opened his mouth to speak.

Like always, he could not hear the words. As the dream fled him, and his eyes snapped open, he felt overwhelmed with a single emotion, an emotion that left his muscles clenched and his hands shaking.

Rage.

“If I must,” Alric said, struggling to his feet and staggering over the riverbank. “Ashhur help me, if I must.”

1

H
e was burning, but the voices didn’t seem to care, nor their owners deign to stop it. Couldn’t they see? Was his pain not obvious? The fire, it lashed his face, his hands, licked away his robes, left him naked and…

Tarlak’s eyes snapped open and frantically surveyed his surroundings. He was in a small room with an ornate cabinet on one end and a plain chair at the other. The walls were decorated with paintings, their frames carved gold. The lone door showed no visible hand or knob. A lone man stood over Tarlak, his clothes a uniform red. Something about the way he surveyed him like a dissected carcass spurred Tarlak into action. He tried to sit up, to form the first motions of a spell, but he found himself bound. His head slammed back down against the bed he lay upon, and he let out a scream of pain. His sudden movement awakened a thousand needles stabbing across his body.

“Where?” he muttered with a tongue so dry it felt made of sand. “Where am I?”

“The Apprentices’ Tower,” said the man in red. “Now lay still. I haven’t finished putting on today’s ointments.”

Tarlak tried to concentrate, but it felt like a fog had settled over his mind.
One thing at a time
, he told himself.
Focus on one thing at a time.
He started with the restraints. Two cords of leather, one around his neck, the other his forehead. Together they kept his head pinned to the bed. More buckles locked down his elbows and wrists, limiting his range of movements. Worst were his fingers, all ten inside individual loops of iron screwed to a metal inset in the bed, preventing them from even twitching. Last were a few more simple cords around his knees and ankles, thoroughly imprisoning him.

Casting a spell was out, Tarlak decided. Dread swelled in his chest, but he fought it down. Think, he told himself. He was in the apprentices’ tower, which meant the Council of Mages had spared him after their treacherous assault on King Antonil and his weary army. Remembrance of that ambush sparked a fire in his chest, and he strained once more against the buckles and cords.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because the Lord of the Council decided you would live,” said his caretaker. “For now.”

The man held up his bucket and dipped his hand inside. When he pulled it out it was caked with a thick white cream. Its similarity to soured milk did not help Tarlak’s queasy stomach. Without any attempt at tenderness, the apprentice rubbed it on Tarlak’s right leg. A cool sensation spread upon contact, dulling the pain. Seeing him apply the medicine made Tarlak aware of his nakedness, with only a simple cloth to cover his loins. Not that Tarlak was particularly shy, but it allowed him to see the extent of his burns. What he saw was disturbing enough that he looked away and focused on the ceiling instead.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Why do you care?’

“If I’m to be tied down half-naked in a room with another man, I’d prefer to know his name.”

The man grabbed another clump of the white goo, frowned at him.

“Cecil.”

“Just Cecil?”

“Cecil Towerborn, if you must know.”

Tarlak grunted. Well, that was interesting, if he could call such a factoid interesting amid horrible pain in his arms, legs, and face. The moniker ‘Towerborn’ was given to those dumped at the steps of the Apprentices’ Tower by mothers and fathers too poor, or too terrible, to raise their own children. Those tested and shown to contain significant magical potential were kept. Those found lacking, well, those types of stories were Tarlak’s favorites to tell when the night was young and he had an audience he wanted to mentally scar.

Speaking of scars…

“Well, Cecil,” Tarlak said, forcing himself to talk. Each moment he was awake he found the fog lifting, and in its place came raging, fiery pain. “Would you care to tell me how badly you scoundrels burned me?”

Cecil hesitated, then resumed spreading the cream. His robes were red, signifying him as an apprentice, but he looked to be in his thirties. Faint lines surrounded pale blue eyes, and the boyish cut of his blond hair seemed almost comical. Tarlak wondered what had kept him stalled for so long, unable to transition over to the Masters’ Tower. That he’d survived at all as a Towerborn meant he had some measure of prowess.

“Not as terrible as it should have been,” Cecil said. “The dead king protected you from much of it, and your meager protection spell prevented the burns from going as deep as they would have otherwise.”

“Yes, I get it, I should have died,” Tarlak said, groaning despite himself. “Tell me things I don’t know.”

Cecil set down the bucket and wiped his hand with a towel.

“Very well. Your legs sustained some burns, but should heal fine, especially with our care. Your arms, though, will bear scars for the rest of your life, however long that is. As for your face, that is where it is most erratic, due to a failing in your defenses, no doubt. The burns are in small blotches, and also likely to scar.”

Tarlak let out a sigh. That explained the constant itch in his arms and fingers. No doubt that itch was subdued pain he’d feel in due time. Not that they didn’t already hurt. They did. He just knew they were capable of hurting worse.

A knock came from the door, and Cecil turned to go.

“Wait,” Tarlak said. “I have one more question.”

Cecil turned, clearly impatient.

“What?” he asked.

Tarlak swallowed, braced himself.

“Did the fire burn off all my hair?”

Cecil blinked, and it took him a second to collect himself.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re as bald as a baby’s ass.”

“Bastards,” Tarlak said, letting out a sigh as he relaxed back into the bed. “Cruel, heartless bastards.”

Cecil opened the door, bowed to whoever had knocked, and stepped out. With not much else to look at, Tarlak stared at the ceiling. A cursory glance at the paintings showed them replications of forests, rivers, and mountains. Free things, he realized. Things to remind him of how isolated and alone he was, chained in that tiny little room. Or maybe it was to trick him into thinking he was freer than he actually was? Too bad his mind didn’t work like that. Or maybe subliminal messages couldn’t work on someone half-burned to death and strapped down to a bed.

Tarlak heard the door close, footsteps on the hard stone, and then his new visitor stepped into his peripheral vision. Tarlak started, instinctively trying to form a protection spell despite his locked down fingers. The visitor was a tall man, his robe a deep black that reflected red when the light from the windows hit it just right. His angular face was clean shaven. Long straight hair fell down around his neck, and the softest of movements caused red, orange, and yellow ripples to cascade outward, like a fire burned deep within every dark strand. Unlike the fire of his hair, his eyebrows were bushy and bright gold. There was only one person who would dare dress in such a manner, and use magic to showcase his reputation in his chosen specialization: Roand the Flame, Lord of the Council.

Roand stood over him, hands at the edge of the bed. His irises, a gradient of color going from red in the center to yellow at the far edges, narrowed as he stared down.

“Your name,” he said. “What is it?”

“Tarlak Eschaton,” Tarlak said, smiling his widest smile. “At your service.”

Roand didn’t bat an eye.

“Do you have proof you are who you say you are?”

“That depends. Did my robes survive?”

“Parts of them did.”

“Good,” Tarlak said, letting out a chuckle. “They were yellow, weren’t they? Would anyone else in the whole damn world wear those same robes? Of course not. I’m Tarlak Eschaton, hero of the free world; you’re Roand the Flame, the psychopathic murderer of thousands of soldiers, and right now we’ll just have to trust one another to be who we say we are. Well, not that you’ve said anything, but it’s pretty obvious. I can’t imagine anyone crazy enough to dress like
you
, either.”

“Such a fiery spirit,” Roand said, reaching out and grabbing Tarlak’s arm. His fingers scraped away healing cream, taking blackened flesh with it.

“I’d have chosen a different term,” Tarlak said, closing his eyes and fighting the pain. “People might fear you were making a pun.”

Roand scraped along Tarlak’s arm a second time, his well-manicured nails digging. Tarlak could hear the tearing of his skin, and it made him want to vomit.

“Still your tongue,” the master wizard said. “Humor is how you handle difficult situations, but you let it wander into insult and childishness. In my presence you will behave yourself in a manner more befitting a wizard of your skill.”

Joking was actually his way of ignoring the rapidly increasing pain, but Tarlak didn’t feel like arguing the point.

“And if I don’t?” he asked.

“Then I will make the rest of your body look like your arms, and I promise you, I will not let you die afterward. You’ll lie here and suffer for an age. You know who I am, and where you are. Time itself can be manipulated in this tower, and in those moments, as the fire peels away your flesh, you’ll feel seconds pass like years.”

Tarlak opened his eyes, winked. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Roand took the lone chair from the corner, set it beside the bed, and sat down. He leaned closer to Tarlak, his hands rubbing together.

“I want you to be fully aware of your situation,” Roand said. “I believe we, as human beings, always benefit the more information we have. With understanding comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes a better life. In your case, a longer life. The reason you were not executed on the battlefield is simple, Tarlak. And no, it is not because of your claim on a spot of the Council by defeating your former master, Madral.”

Tarlak kept his face impassive as best he could.

“You know about that, eh?” he asked. “I always wondered.”

“Of course we do,” Roand said. “As we know of much of your exploits. You’ve never actively worked against the Council, and your killing of our assassins in your younger days impressed us more than annoyed us. Your reputation, while a bit foolish, is still one of high regard. These things enhanced my decision, but they were not the deciding factor. No, the reason you are still alive is a simple one: your blood.”

Tarlak raised an eyebrow, wondering if he even had an eyebrow left to raise.

“My…blood?”

“For a man of jokes, you think so literally,” Roand said. “Your bloodline, if you must force me to be precise. The Eschaton were once known as the Escheton, and it was Turock Escheton who placed the first stone of these towers and wrote the laws we still abide by today. Simply put, you are descended from the finest, most brilliant mind to ever grace these walls. To have you die so pitifully before our very doorstep would have been an insult to his name.”

Tarlak tried to wrap his head around this new development. He’d heard the name, of course, but his interest in family history had never been very high, and he’d not connected the two. Part of him wondered if he’d been better off with his great-great-great-grandfather being a random fisherman instead of an ancient wizard. Then he might be dead instead of in massive amounts of hurt.

“Fascinating,” Tarlak said. “So does that mean you’ll heal me up and send me on my way?”

The fire in Roand’s eyes pulsed. Tarlak had a feeling it was the closest the man ever came to laughing.

“Not quite,” he said. “You have consistently practiced the art of magic while simultaneously spurning requests to join our ranks. The Council will convene to determine your fate, Tarlak Eschaton. If we deem your insults against us too severe, we will have you executed.”

Tarlak let out a cough, and despite the pain, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. They were keeping him alive…so they could kill him?

“I thought you didn’t want to insult my dear ancestor’s memory?” he asked.

Roand smiled at him.

“In everything we do, we’ll be following the rules given to us by Turock,” he said. “In what better way could we honor his memory than that?”

Tarlak tried to shrug, found he couldn’t. “By letting me live? That sounds like a good one.”

Roand stood, slowly shaking his head.