Tim Waggoner - Nekropolis

I put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder. I wanted to say something to console her, but it was my turn to be unable to find the right words. Everything that had defined her existence and her very identity for her entire life-seventy-three years-had been stripped away from her in mere moments.

I suppose I should have also been concerned that I’d lost my chance to gain Lord Galm’s aid in staving off my final decay. But you know something? The thought didn’t even occur to me.

Edrigu, Amon, and Talaith wandered off, the latter looking quite pleased with the way things had turned out. Keket-who, I’d noticed, had stayed out of the debate over the Dawnstone-gave us a last look before trailing after the four Darklords, her dog-headed servants in tow. Varvara remained with us, though I wasn’t sure why.

And that’s when a gong sounded, though there was none in the room to be seen, and through a doorway on the other side of the room entered a handsome man dressed in a dark purple toga.

Father Dis.

Everything stopped-the music, the conversation-and everyone turned toward Dis and slowly went down on bended knees. I don’t mind showing someone respect, provided they earn it. But the idea of paying homage to a person I’d never meant as if he were royalty-even if in Nekropolis he was-really grated. Still, I knelt along with the others, though I gritted my teeth while doing so.

Dis strode into the chamber with the easy confidence of someone who is lord of all he surveys and doesn’t feel a need to make a big deal out of it. He paused for a moment, smiled, and then gestured for us to stand. Everyone complied, but they remained silent, watching Father Dis and waiting for their next cue.

Dis wasn’t what I had expected. There was nothing monstrous about him at all. He stood over six feet, had short curly black hair, a large but distinguished-looking nose, and a relaxed, charming smile. This was the ultimate Lord of Nekropolis? He looked more like an Italian movie star.

He walked through the crowd, smiling and nodding to those he passed, stopping once or twice to shake someone’s hand (or paw or claw). And then he continued walking-straight toward us.

When he reached us, he stopped and flashed that smile of his. “Varvara, how lovely to see you, as always.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. His voice was a mellow tenor, but with an odd accent I couldn’t quite place.

“My Lord,” Varvara said solemnly, all trace of the shallow, fashion-crazed party-girl persona she affected gone.

Dis released her hand and turned to Devona and me. “I see we have two new guests this evening. Charmed, Ms. Kanti.” He kissed Devona’s hand, and she just watched him, flustered. “Mr. Richter.”

I held up my gray-skinned hand. “If you’re going to kiss my hand too, I have to warn you, it’s seen better days.” I couldn’t help it; I’m even more of a smart aleck than usual when I’m nervous.

Dis chuckled. “I’ve seen far worse in my time, Mr. Richter, believe me.” And then the pupils in his warm brown eyes dilated, becoming windows to a darkness deeper and colder than anything I had ever imagined. His pupils returned to normal and he shook my hand. “So glad you two could make it tonight. I hope it shall turn out to be a memorable experience for you both.”

And with that he left us and walked toward the pentagram-shaped dais. “The time is nigh!” he called out in a commanding voice, the charming host gone, replaced by the Lord of the City. “Let us begin!”

He mounted the dais steps and climbed to the top, and passed through the ring of Sentinels. He took a position in the center of the pentagram and waited. The five Darklords, including Varvara, then joined him, each standing on the point of the pentagram which corresponded to the location of their stronghold in the city, facing Father Dis.

I half expected dramatic music to swell as Dis and the Darklords raised their arms above their heads, but the chamber was silent, the air charged with anticipation. Everyone stood gathered around the dais, watching, waiting. Dis chanted no harsh, multisyllabic words of magic, made no complicated mystic gestures. All he did was simply look upward-and the Nightspire began to open.

As if it were an ebon flower curling back its nightdark petals, the tip of Nightspire blossomed open to reveal Umbriel. The shadowsun hovered huge and heavy in the eternal night of Nekropolis’s sky, its hue no longer pure black but now shot through with patches of gray. It seemed to sag in the sky, as if weary and barely able to keep itself aloft.

The Darklords lowered their hands until they were pointing at Dis. And then gouts of darkness blasted forth from their palms to engulf him in a turbulent, writhing shroud of shadow. Dis inhaled, drawing the darkness into him as if it were air, and then, with the Lords continuing to feed him with their shadow, Dis l owered his arms, threw back his head, and opened his mouth wide.

A torrent of darkness surged upward from deep within the being that called itself Father Dis, spiraling up through the interior of the Nightspire, geysering forth from the opening, and streaking across the starless sky toward Umbriel. The stygian bolt struck the shadowsun, feeding, restoring, renewing it. As we watched, the patches of gray began to shrink, and Umbriel seemed to grow stronger and more vital. It was a wonder to behold. A dark wonder, yes, but a wonder just the same.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of movement on the dais. One of the Sentinels-the one I’d recognized earlier, with the scar on its chest-was stirring. It moved its thick-fingered hands to theline of puckered flesh, plunged them into the skin, and pulled open its chest. It reached into the cavity and brought forth a crystal a bit larger than a man’s fist.

The Dawnstone.

I understood in a flash how the artifact had been smuggled past the Nightspire’s wardspells. Concealed within a Sentinel, one of Dis’s own guards, it hadn’t tripped any of the mystic protections.

Some of the others in the audience had noticed the Sentinel’s actions, and were shouting and pointing. If the Darklords and Dis were aware of what was happening, they gave no sign. The Lords continued pumping Dis full of darkness, and he in turn continued feeding it upward into Umbriel.

The Sentinel cupped the Dawnstone in its hands, and a warm yellow glow began to suffuse the crystal.

“It’s activating the stone!” Devona shouted. “But that’s impossible! A Sentinel is a golem, a mystic automaton without a mind of its own! It can’t work magic!”

The Dawnstone’s glow was getting brighter.

“Well, this one can!” I said.

People were shouting to the Lords, trying to get their attention, but it was no use. Whether the Lords couldn’t hear or couldn’t afford to be distracted at this point in the ceremony, they didn’t respond. Neither, for that matter, did the other Sentinels, who remained motionless on the dais. Maybe they too were somehow part of the ceremony, or perhaps they needed Dis to command them to action. Whichever the case, they stood by, useless.

Dis’s red-robed attendants, the Cabal, dropped their serving trays and rushed toward the rogue Sentinel, their hands flaring with crimson energy. But the Sentinel merely pointed the Dawnstone at the oncoming attendants. A dazzling lance of white light blazed forth from the crystal and washed over the Cabal. They didn’t even have time to scream. One second they were there, the next they were gone. Not even dust remained.

A number of the Darklords’ guests-the vampires especially-fell to the floor, crying and moaning in pain, injured from merely witnessing the release of the Dawnstone’s awesome power. Keket managed to remain on her cloth-wrapped feet, but she’d averted her eyes, unable to face the Dawnstone’s luminance. Her Warders huddled behind her, whining like terrified dogs. Everyone else either stood in mute fear or was trying to escape the chamber. No one headed for the Sentinel, which was slowly starting to turn around to face Dis and the Darklords.