A Triumph of Souls (2 page)

“And quite properly so. Very good, Termaget. You may go.”

“Thank you, Lord.” Bowing and scraping, the old man retreated toward the main doorway. As he turned to depart, Hymneth considered
whether to let the eromakadi take a playful nip at his heels. Nothing serious; just a week or so out of his remaining years.
Days someone like Termaget would probably waste anyway. Hymneth decided against it, knowing that the old fellow probably would
not see the humor in the situation.

His cape flowing behind him like blood running down the outside of a chalice, he exited the dining room. Instead of striding
toward the audience chamber as he normally did this time of morning, he turned instead to his right in the middle of the main
hall. The door there was bolted with a hex and locked with a spell, both of which yielded to the keys of his voice. He did
not bother to seal it behind him. It would take a braver man or woman than dwelled in the castle to try the steps that began
to descend immediately behind the door. Hex and spell were designed not to keep them out, but to seal something securely within.

Torches flared to life at his approach, the flames bowing briefly in his direction. As Hymneth descended the corkscrewing
stairway, one of the eromakadi darted swiftly upward behind him to suck the life out of one torch. The flame screamed, a high-pitched
conflagratory shriek, as it died. When Hymneth turned to reproach the black gust of horror, it hid behind its twin like a
censured child.

Down the Lord of Ehl-Larimar went, below the sewers that carried water and waste away from the castle, below the dungeons
where men and women and children wailed and whimpered in forgotten misery, below even the unshakable foundations of the massive
fortress itself. Down until there was nothing left but the raw Earth—and the Pit that had been gouged from its heart.

At this depth nothing could live that basked in the light of the sun. In the perpetual darkness, things that rarely saw the
surface burrowed and crept, mewling and cheeping softly to others of their own kind, hoping to avoid the mephitic, malodorous
monstrosities armed with teeth and claw that would prey readily on anything that moved. An eerie glow came from the phosphorescent
fungi that thrust bulbous, deformed stalks and heads above the surface of the Pit, giving it the appearance of some ghastly,
unwholesome garden. In this place even the air seemed dead. All movement took place below the surface, out of sight, out of
light.

Until Hymneth arrived, with eromakadi in tow.

Pausing on the last step, the final piece of clean, hewn stone that bordered the Pit, he gazed speculatively down into its
depths. His boots, he knew, would require days of scrubbing to make them clean again. As he slowly lifted
both arms up and out, his steady, sturdy voice shattered the diseased stillness.

“Alegemakh! Borun val malcuso
. Show thyself, and speak!”

For a long moment there was nothing. No sound, no movement except the breathy stirring of the eromakadi. Then soil began to
tremble, and shift, disturbed by some movement from below. Clumps of moist loam shuddered and individual particles of dirt
bounced and quivered until at last they were thrust aside by something monstrous.

The Worm arose.

It burst forth from the earth, shedding dirt and uprooted fungi from its flanks. Pellucid mucus glistened along the length
of its body. A length that no man, not even Hymneth the Possessed, had ever measured. The Worm might be ten feet long, or
twenty, or a hundred. Or it might curl and coil all the way through to the other side of the Earth. No one knew. No one would
ever know, because attempting the knowing meant death. Of all men, only Hymneth had power enough to meet the Worm in this
place, chiseled out of the solid rock halfway between air and earth, and survive.

It lifted above him, shimmering and immense, its great tubular body arching forward like that of a questing serpent. Its upper
girth, if not its length, was measurable. From where it emerged from the ground to its head it was as thick around as a good-sized
tree. The last eight feet of it tapered to an almost comically small mouth, no bigger around than a barrel. From this darted
and fluttered, like the tongue of a snake, a long, wet, flexible organ tipped with four tapering, sharp fangs that pointed
forward. It was not a tongue, but a device for piercing the body of prey and
sucking out their soft insides. The Worm’s diet was varied—it would eat dirt as readily as blood.

Darting away from their master’s side, the twin eromakadi began to feast on the light emitted by the bioluminescent fungi.
Completely enveloping a helpless mushroom or toadstool, they would hover thus until its light had been consumed before moving
on to another, leaving behind a shriveled and dying lump where before there had been life, however humble.

The Worm too pulsed with its own pale, necrotic glow, but they kept clear of that massive, hovering body. Not because they
were afraid of it, but because they knew it was there to meet their master. And of all the things in the world, the eromakadi
feared only Hymneth the Possessed.

Vestigial eyes no larger than small coins focused on the tall, armored figure waiting on the lowermost of the stone steps.
Black as the eternal night in which they dwelled, they had neither pupils nor eyelids. But they recognized the tall figure.
Long ago, Worm and man had struck an accord. Hymneth provided the Worm with—food. The Worm, in turn, kept a kind of watch
over the realm of the Possessed. It had the ability to sense disturbances in That Which Had Not Yet Happened. The great majority
of these it ignored.

But out on the fringes of the future it had detected something. Something active, and advancing, and imbued with might. In
keeping with the covenant it had made with the man, it duly remarked upon this commotion.

“He comes. And he is not alone.”

Hymneth had lowered his arms. As the eromakadi spread small deaths throughout the chamber, he concen-
trated on the tapering head of the Worm swaying high above his own. “Who comes, eater of dirt?”

The Worm’s voice was a high hollowness. “A master of the necromantic arts. A questioner of all that is unanswered. One who
seeks justice wherever he treads. He comes this way from across the Semordria.”

“That is not possible. The eastern ocean is not a lake, to be crossed at will by casual travelers. They would have to travel
far to the south, pass through the Straits of Duenclask, and then sail north against the current through the waters of the
Aurreal.”

“A strong boat guided by a bold Captain brings him, and the three who journey by his side.”

“Only three?” Hymneth relaxed. This descent to the depths had been unnecessary after all. “That is a small army indeed.”

“I render no judgment. I speak only of what I sense.”

The Possessed chuckled softly, the crimson helmet reverberating with his laughter. “I will alert the navy to keep watch for
any odd vessels entering the harbor. As always, I thank you for your attention, Worm. But in this matter your insight seems
to be sorely lacking.”

“Sense,” the Worm whispered. “Not judgment.” It was silent for several moments, its upper length weaving slowly back and forth
above the churned surface of the Pit. “They come for the woman.”

That piqued Hymneth’s interest. “So the young Beckwith was not the last. I thought with putting paid to him and his crew I
had seen the last of these misguided aristocrats. They worry me like fleas.” He sighed. “Well, in the unlikely event that
any of them should reach Ehl-Larimar I will tell Peregriff to alert the castle guards. But I have
more confidence in the ocean. Even if they reach these shores my gunboats will stop them before they can cross the outer
reefs.” He shook his head sadly.

“You would think they would recognize who they were dealing with, and stop shipping their sons off to be slaughtered. The
error of false pride. As if running this kingdom didn’t make demands enough upon my time.”

“Feed me.” The immense, looming mass of the Worm swayed hypnotically back and forth, the flickering light of the stairway
torches gleaming off its terrible piercing teeth. “I tire of soil. I have done my share. Feed me.”

“Yes, yes,” Hymneth replied irritably. He had already virtually forgotten all that the Worm had told him. As if a mere four
possible invaders were anything to worry about, even if one happened to be a so-called master of the necromantic arts. There
was only one dominating master of matters sorcerous and alchemical, and that was Hymneth the Possessed.

As he started back up the stairs he almost hoped these predicted intruders did manage to survive the impossible journey across
the ocean. It had been a long time since he had fought a duel, and it would be good to have someone worthy to exercise his
powers against. Though he doubted any of these potential assailants would qualify. To the best of his knowledge, there were
no worthy masters living on the other side of the Semordria in the Thinking Kingdoms. For all the threat it posed to him,
the Worm might as well have kept the information to itself and not disturbed him. He departed disappointed.

“Feed me!” The reverberant moan rose insistently behind him.

Where the stairs began to disappear upward, Hymneth
paused to lean over and peer downward. The head of the Worm vacillated below him now. “For information like that you deserve
nothing. But I am mindful of the covenant between us. I’m sure Peregriff can find a few condemned, or condemnable, to bring
to you. The axman will gain a rest.”

“I await.” With a wet, sucking sound the Worm began to withdraw into the damp earth. It would lie there, Hymneth knew, with
only its head above the surface, until the promised unfortunates were brought. Cast into the Pit, they would be pierced by
the creature’s mouth parts, their internal organs and muscles and flesh liquefied, and the consequent putrid, gelatinous mush
sucked out. No one could complain, Hymneth mused virtuously, that his dungeons suffered from overcrowding.

As he climbed upward, the two eromakadi reluctantly left the last of the surviving fungi to accompany him, impenetrable black
clouds that hovered at his heels. Occasionally they would show very small, slanted red eyes, but most of the time they kept
themselves as black as pitch. Visitors who knew what they represented were as terrified by their silence as by their shapes.

Hymneth had mounted nearly to the top of the corkscrewing stairwell when a voice, pure and melodious as the golden bells of
a benign spirit, called down to him accusingly.

“So this is where you spend your time. In the depths of the Earth, consorting with demons!”

Taken aback by the unexpected intrusion, he tilted his head to peer upward. High above him, a portrait of beauty unsurpassed
gazed down. Not even the look of utter disgust on her face could mar the perfection of her countenance.

“My beloved Themaryl, this is business of state! Nothing more. I converse in the depths. I do not consort.”

Her face furrowed with loathing. “You smell of things diseased and rotting. I thought—I thought we might talk, so I sought
you out. I’m glad that I did, for it gave me the chance to see yet again your true self!” With that she whirled and fled upward,
back to her rooms, back to the tower that she had made a prison for herself.

Bad timing, Hymneth thought in an agony of frustration. Of all the mornings and moments to parley with the Worm, of all the
hours available to all the days, he had chosen the one time she had relented enough to descend from her steeple. Falling to
his knees, he let out a cry of utter despair, knowing even as he did so that it would have no effect on her. Delighting in
his anguish, the eromakadi clustered closer, inhaling of the darkness that had suddenly suffused his soul.

Slowly, his clenched fists fell away from the eye slits of his helmet. Someone had told her where he was. Someone had shown
her where he was. Admittedly, he had decreed that she be given the run of the castle. But whatever fool had believed that
included access to the Pit had, while displaying adherence to the letter of his command, shown excruciatingly bad judgment.

He rose to his feet. With all of Ehl-Larimar to administer and govern, he could not afford to tolerate those who exhibited
bad judgment. Especially not those who did so in his own home, his sanctuary. When she had inquired as to his whereabouts,
someone had taken her by the hand and guided her to the door that led to the Pit. It was a given. Mere directions would not
have allowed her to find the unprepossessing door by herself, much less to enter.

Talk. She had thought they might talk. It had been months since she had said a word to him other than to demand that he return
her to her home and people, and today, this morning, she had been ready to talk. A major breakthrough in their relationship
shattered like cheap glass. Another setback when he might have hoped, just a little, for progress. And all because of someone’s
bad judgment.

That night the villagers who lived below the castle, on the slopes of the mountains, put cotton in the ears of their children
and laid extra blankets across their beds. They slept in the same rooms with them, sharing their beds or lying on linens spread
out on the floor. They made sure all animals were secured tightly in their barns and corrals, paddocks and pens. They did
this because of the screaming that drifted down from the castle like black snow.

Up above, the unfortunate were being punished for a lack of good judgment. It went on all through the night. As dawn neared
it grew so bad that even the bats fled the vicinity. The children slept, but their parents were not so lucky. One family lost
two horses, dead from heart attacks, and another a brace of goats that, maddened by the sounds, broke free of their pens and
fled into the forest, never to be seen again.

All told, the slope-dwelling citizens of Ehl-Larimar counted themselves lucky when the sun finally appeared over the mountaintops
and the last of the shrieking died in a sudden, violent choking. They proceeded to go about their morning chores and business
as if nothing had happened, as if the previous night had been only a bad dream, to be quickly forgotten like any bad dream.
The women of the villages, however, found themselves with extra washing.
Having spent the night oozing fearful sweat in great profusion, they and their husbands had stained many a nightdress beyond
immediate reuse.