Eleven miles of tunnel was the sort of venue only a spirit would bother to construct, being immortal with infinite time to kill. It was a terrible size for a front door. What were you supposed to do if you got just down the road and realized you’d forgotten your wallet?
Root hadn’t minded it so much on the way in. Then, with anxiety wicking off her skin in the form of smoky wisps, she’d almost hoped they never got to the other side—never advanced to the next stage of their plan. And as if it hadn’t been bad enough, she’d had to worry about hiding her smoldering from Kanchitt and Tumb, too. Eleven miles of tunnel meant they surely took burn risks seriously. Evacuating would take hours. Fire drills must’ve taken all week. At least they wouldn’t have to evacuate the prisoners; they didn’t have lungs.
Now, she had the opposite problem. Every step felt like a mile on its own, a delay, a chance for the clinkers to deal with their explosion problem and come back to take another look at the mote periapts. With any luck, they’d put some distance between themselves and the facility before anyone came looking for them again. But the first step was making it out the door.
The second, third, fourth, and so on steps also moved them in that direction. It was going to take quite a few more.
They’d been jogging on and off (and listening to Beel whine about jogging on and on) for less than an hour when light appeared ahead. Root couldn’t deny her relief. They’d traversed the tunnel faster the first time as “welcome” inhabitants, and had had to cross their fingers that scooping up their belongings and making a run for it hadn’t revoked their expedited tunnel pass.
The clinkers at the entrance didn’t stop them, nor the Mandy above the door. The three of them set off nonchalantly down the hill until they reached a low hollow behind a boulder a short ways away and ducked inside.
“Do you see them?” Root asked Azriah, who peeked around the boulder to watch the gaping maw of the tunnel.
“Not yet.”
“They shouldn’t be too far behind. Right?”
“Little legs,” said Azriah dismissively. He took a swig of water.
Twenty minutes passed as they sat in the hollow, catching their breath and bouncing their legs in tense silence.
“They should be here by now,” said Root. “Something could’ve happened. They could’ve gotten caught…”
“There were fewer clinkers in the tunnel,” said Azriah. “Off dealing with the explosions, probably. We got lucky.”
“We should go back in.”
“And tell the clinkers at the entrance what, exactly?”
Root snapped her fingers. “You forgot your wallet.”
“And leave all the periapts out here? Split up even more?” Azriah shook his head. “Little legs,” he said again.
Another twenty minutes passed. Root began to pace. In the small confines of the hollow, it was more a matter of taking one step forward, then backtracking, then doing it all again.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Little legs.” Azriah sounded calm, but he’d hardly looked away from the entrance.
Root didn’t know how long they waited there; it felt like days. But finally, with a surge of palpable relief, Vit crested the boulder in spider form and half-dropped into the hollow. The brick—wrapped in a harness of web—fell into the dirt beside them.
A moment later, Vit was back in their usual form, breathing heavily and digging weakly in Azriah’s bag for their water. They took a long drink.
“What happened?” asked Root.
“I don’t think I was welcome.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You all went… so fast… and my legs…”
“Little,” said Root.
“Eleven miles.”
“Sorry.”
Vit wiped a hand over their face. “But we made it out. It’s a m—”
“No!” all three of them cried in unison.
“Right.”
“So this is it?” asked Azriah, lifting the brick.
“Him,” said the brick, the little smiley face moving beneath a dusting of damp dirt.
“Oh. Hello.”
“I presume you’re another accomplice in all of this? With—ah, yes, there’s that girl.”
“Root,” said Root, and stuck out a hand on instinct. She aborted the gesture immediately, turning it into an awkward, too-low wave. Idiot.
“I’m Azriah. And you’re Ago Sog? The Un—” He scratched his head. “The, uh. King of Urk? Formerly.”
So far, their diplomacy was artful.
“The Unsightly King,” filled in the king. “Now, could you wipe away these strands of—yes, thank you.”
“Can you feel things?” asked Root bluntly in another win for tactful rapport-building.
“Of course he has feelings,” said Beel.
“Yes and no,” said the king without elaboration. “Now, my gratitude is unwavering, but what is this?”
“That’s Beel,” said Root.
“You all—you’re anti-prison? Or pro-monarchy?”
“The former,” said Azriah. “But neither was our motive.”
“We’re hoping you can help us,” said Root, taking the brick and holding it up so that she was face to face with the simple smiling carving. “You know David?”
“David Mammona,” added Vit.
“No.”
“Hm. They say he, uh, defeated you?”
“Ah. Must be the current Grand Priest, then? Most recent in a line of squatters?”
“That’s the one.”
“They all say that,” said the king, impressively relaying a dismissive eye roll despite his limited biology. “It’s just their little spot in the mythos. Inserting themself into the story. All a bunch of religious mumbo-jumbo.”
“So you never met him?” asked Root.
“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
Root waved it away. “Regardless. We broke you out so you can get us into the palace. We know about your secret tunnels.”
“You’re after the halo, then?”
The four of them shared a look. Vit shrugged and nodded.
“Yes,” admitted Root.
“I’ll help you.”
“Oh. Okay, great.”
“If—”
“Of course…”
“You help me, too. If you set me free—get me out of this brick.”
“That sounds entirely fair,” conceded Root, speaking more to the uneasy look passing between Vit and Azriah and the uneasier look passing between Beel and everything.
“In fact, we’ll start there. Back in my proper form, I can be far more useful to this operation. Hands, for one. I can draw up maps, make detailed notes—”
“No,” said Azriah. He took the brick back. “We’ll free you after we have the halo. We’ve already broken you out of Capsoul’s prison—consider it a down payment. If those terms are unacceptable, we can leave you here. I’m sure those clinkers just up the hill will stumble upon you here eventually.”
The king sighed. “Oh, very well. If you insist on doing all of the heavy lifting by yourself.”
“You’re not too cumbersome,” said Root. “A little weightier than the average brick.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Vit.
A new agitation had sparked on the king’s features—a more frequent flick of his carved eyes, roving this way and that. “We’re still near those Capsoul folks, though? Perhaps we ought to put some more distance between us and them…?”
“Vit?” asked Azriah. They still lay on the ground.
“Yeah, all right.” They stood—slowly. “My human legs aren’t that tired.”
“And,” continued the king, “maybe someone else carries me from this point?” His eyes darted nervously back to Vit.
Azriah furrowed his brow. “Is there a problem…?”
“Little legs,” muttered the king, voice quavering.
Vit shrugged. “No complaints here.”
Root didn’t relax until they’d put Corrivack back between them and Capsoul. The king didn’t relax at all.
“And make sure you’re taking care where you step,” he said to Azriah, who carried him. “Their trackers are good—some of the best. And there are bounty hunters, too. Yes, it’s better to find Capsoul on your tail than some of those folks. Knew a guy in there—Garrut, great guy, only unflendered twenty-eight people, but nevertheless, they came after him!—he was brought in by bounty hunters. The things they did to him… oh, keeps me up at night. I can’t even repeat the gentlest of offenses. Accuse someone of a crime and suddenly all decency towards them evaporates, just like that! We’re still spirit. Hey—no, no, no, don’t trample through a fern like that. Are you serious right now? Do you have any idea how to tread lightly?”
“He doesn’t,” croaked Orne Tyn.
“Oh? What, another recruit? They bust you out of the cells too?”
“Orne Tyn has been with me longer,” said Azriah.
“Rrrr-regretfully.”
“Not an inmate, huh?” asked the king. “Just someone’s project?”
“Yarrp.”
“You know, I truly think that’s even more despicable. At least someone decided I deserved this existence. But you…”
“Rrr-rrrrii.”
“So,” started Vit, “what does it take to… do… a possession?”
“First, you have to have absolutely no sense of morality or justice.”
“I see.”
“Then you need an item.”
“Like a brick.”
“If you’re particularly contemptible. Then, with tremendous power—magic or finesse; a will’s a slippery thing—you force a spirit’s will into it.”
“The glittery tornado thing that comes out of a spirit when it’s killed,” said Root.
The king had gone silent. Root thought she’d offended him until he hissed a whisper. “That sound. Was that… do you hear wolves? Far off, but…”
“Yeah, somewhere out there,” said Vit. “Or some howling spirit.”
“You never know,” said the king, nerves choking his voice. “They’re fast, and they can smell prey from miles off. Pick up the pace, pick up the pace.”
“Doesn’t sound that close,” said Beel reassuringly. “We’ve walked quite a lot today, and there’s no need to run. Yet.”
The others shared a look. There was, of course, a first for everything.
They’ve come for me, thought Ago Sog, the Unsightly King of Urk. He thought the thought again, as he had numerous times already. It wrapped around his mind like a constrictor, squeezing, closing in, repeating faster and faster, louder and louder. They’re here. They’ve come for me. I knew the day would come, I knew the day would come.
His fingers scrabbled in the narrow gap between the brick wall and the abutting column. His middle finger found purchase—the slimmest of holes, like a pore in the rock—and triggered the release inside. The column swung forward.
Heavy boots pounded down the hallway. “There!” called a voice.
The king squeezed ahead into the narrow chute hidden behind the column. He tried to pull the column back into place behind him; chu-grick! A sinister metal hook swung around, one tip digging into the sandstone and wrenching the hinged column from the king’s grasp, holding it ajar. The king cried out in panic, but there was no time to backtrack. He shot down the chute.
The slide leveled off into a passageway below. The king sprinted ahead as voices echoed down behind him.
To the east kitchen—they’ll never make it to the east kitchen! Have to reach it, move, move. The king ducked and sidled through a narrow section of the passage. To an outsider, his gait might’ve looked like he had half the desert’s termites crawling up his legs as he pivoted and leaped. And perhaps that was what his pursuers thought as they trailed him with much more reasonable footfalls.
Schwing! One of them had stepped on the third tile from the right near the second beam, by the sound of it. Ha ha!
The king stopped near a hole in the floor and dropped down, entering a second passage—shorter than the first, and lined with old cans of paint. He stepped gingerly past them, lifting his feet high.
Thuds followed along behind as he moved around one corner, then another, entering a circular tunnel that crossed behind a duct grate. He hazarded a brief glance out into the room beyond and his heart seized.
Three more in the room below. They were everywhere. Move, move, move.
Twack… click… cur-PWAK! And there were the paint cans. How many more intruders were there? Too many…
The king reached a wall. With a precise stomp, a hatch opened up overhead. He leaped, wriggled, disappeared. He swung the hatch closed behind him. He pulled a handle and heard the unmistakable sound of a second hatch opening in the floor below. He paused. Footfalls—at least two more. Or something with extra feet.
“Did he…?”
“Down here!”
One, two…
Two screams filled the air, muffled as they shot into the depths of the palace. The king crawled on ahead.
An ambush outside, surely—they mean to chase me out! No, no, have to get to a safe spot inside. Somewhere secure. He kept crawling. Unless… unless, no, they will set fire to the palace, burn me alive in here, bring it down on top of me! I have to get out, out!
A staircase opened up nearby. The king took it as he listened through the walls—sounds of struggle, the guards fighting off the intruders. Shouts rang out. He descended deeper.
The king peeked around every corner. Looking for assassins, yes, but scorpions also. He’d seen one in this section of the tunnels once.
He reeled away from a dark passage ahead. They’re in there! Waiting with their stingers! He darted down a different tunnel.
When he opened the next hidden door and peeked out into the world beyond, it was the streets of Urk that waited there, quiet in the dead of night. He hoisted himself up.
Out of the city, he thought. Out to the north safe house. I can make it. Unless they’re already there! Or they may have dogs—release them through the streets! No, no, no. East, around the palace base, back in through the nearest barracks entrance. Unless… unless someone inside informed these assassins! Unless someone has betrayed me! My guards, my soldiers—compromised! Compromised, compromised!
Wings beat the air. The king whirled.
Someone descended from above, a bow drawn. Two more came rushing in from around a corner. Trapped, trapped, trapped…
Magenta light filled the street. The gem set above the king’s brow glowed. He bellowed.
Darting out like spears, beams of light exploded, sharp as razors. Three of them collided with the assassins.
The winged one plummeted and the other two crumpled. All three scrabbled across the stone street, eyes wide, mouths agape. Two screamed in pure, distilled terror as they looked up at the king towering over them. They ran.
But the king’s bellow, the assassins’ screams—all had heard them. Commotion stirred at the base of the palace above.
“Down there! Go, go!”
Five more rushed down—two in the air, one held aloft by the pair, one leaping, and one running along the vertical surface with great speed. The king turned to meet them.
His own fright welled within him, the instincts of prey overflowing, funneled up, churning into hot magenta light. The king straightened up.
Around him, a new visage formed, huge and terrible and woven from the light of the halo. All five assassins froze, reacting as the first three had, but now with something more before them—something real, something terrifying.
More screams. The king seized his opportunity, backing up, turning to run…
An arrow struck him, its head piercing his chest just below the neck. The king wavered on his feet, looking down at the feathered shaft as shock slowly faded to pain.
Another landed in his shoulder. A third in the gut. A fourth whistled just past his scalp, collided with the halo, and tore it from his head.
The king collapsed.
“No,” he croaked. “No. No!”
“Non-lethal, non-lethal!” shouted a voice somewhere in the distance. “We need a brickmason in position!”
The king, sprawled in the street now, reached for the halo. Almost, almost…
“All right,” called a voice. Something struck the king’s back. The world vanished.
Wind whipped him. He moved—fast—carried along by a great force drawing him forward. He slowed…
What was happening?
Sounds flew around him, murmurs so distant it was like they were memories. His momentum sputtered, caught, struggling as if in a web. He surged forward, but a wall had come up before him and something dragged him back.
Walls closed in—one to the side now, and above. They tightened, pulling him down, compacting him. He felt small—impossibly small, like a contortionist pressed far beyond his limits. He could feel the bones he didn’t have snapping, the limbs he didn’t have being shattered and compressed. The body he didn’t have packed in smaller and smaller, a singularity.
He opened his eyes. They felt… crusty.
He couldn’t move. His arms, his legs. His entire body, every inch of every muscle, bound in full, overpowering restraints.
“… And you’ve got the paperwork?” said a voice above him. He hardly listened to it; he writhed uselessly in the desperate need to feel himself move—even just a finger, a twitch of a muscle, anything.
“Ugh, worst part of this job. Why does Ron need us to log everything?”
“Take the halo, too,” said another voice. “We’ll move it to the vault.”
“You will do no such thing,” said a new voice. This one, the king recognized. He strained to see, but he couldn’t crane his neck.
“Protocol says—”
“The terms of this contract were clear. The halo is now under the church’s protection.”
The church. Yes, it was him, that conniving little rat. Jacob. Human. A “Grand Priest,” he called himself. Those religious extremists had been worming their way deeper and deeper into Urk and his people for years. And he’d left them alone, given them space for their worshipping, only halting their encroachment into the heart of the city. Was that who was behind this plot? Were they to blame for this despicable act of treason?
“We have to at least bring it back for assessment.”
“I spoke with Ron directly and negotiated the terms surrounding the halo. None are to lay a finger on it but me. It’s all in the contract. Now give it here—or I’ll have you charged in contempt of our agreement.”
The king caught the movement—a reluctant shrug and an arm held out. The halo—there, the halo! If he could just reach for it…
These confines—they were unbearable! If he didn’t break free, he was going to lose his mind! He had to… stretch…
“One hell of a palace,” said a voice. “Lost some good people in there. No wonder they call it the barbs. Someone should bring the whole thing down.”
“A shame that would be,” said Jacob. “I do believe we can find a better use for it.”
Heavy bands of metal clamped down on him—one, then another. As if he could move as it was.
“Inmate 65 secured to the plinth,” called the clinker to another at the door. The second wrote something as the first moved off to another part of the room.
The king tried to move, but it was no use. It felt like he’d been crammed into a suitcase, zipped up, and thrown into a river, trapped and drowning. It was useless. It was doubly useless now.
Those bastards, those worms; Children of Endkiu. They’d taken his city, his palace, his body, his halo. He would get his revenge. One day, he would. They had not seen the last of him. Humans—pah, short-lived little vermin. He’d never be able to get out of there before Jacob keeled over and died. Perhaps he already had. How long did those things live, anyway?
It was just another injustice, humans living such short lives, not having to face the consequences of their mistreatment of the world and the people around them. And it took all the meaning out of vengeance.
It didn’t matter. One day, he would break free from this horrid existence. And when he did, he would exact his revenge on whoever wore that halo.
He would get it back.