Deus Necros

Chapter 562: Plans Within Plans

“They fucking killed Faceless!” the first to shout was the shrill voice of the Shrike. Her tone cut the stale air like a knife that had never known a whetstone, all edge and no refinement. “Like how long are we going to just sit and wait, Fangs?”

The rest of the council were all sitting around a table in the depth of only god knows where. The chamber did not belong to any city or temple. It felt carved out of secrecy itself, old stone sweating with a damp chill that never warmed, light drawn from globes that breathed like tired lungs. Holographic visages flickered above the seats that could not be occupied in person, each image wavering at the edges as if reality resented holding their shapes. Not many spoke and they all seemed to be more the thinking type, with the sole exception being the Shrike. She tapped one long nail on the table in a staccato that tried to pass for patience and failed.

“Calm down,” the Fanged Apostle’s hologram shuddered, voice steady in the way rivers are steady even when they flatten whole valleys. It felt like there was anger in there, leashed and familiar, the kind that was used to being obeyed the moment it breathed.

“Telling me to calm down will not just magically calm me down, Fangs, and you know it. At first it was the Lich, I never liked that rotting corpse, but he was capable, but now they even killed my handsome Faceless!” The word handsome came out like a joke told to a grave, affectionate and ugly at once.

“You do not even know what he looks like,” the voice came from the masked man on the other side, Crucendo. He rested an elbow as if bored, mask expressionless, posture loose in a way that said it never needed to be tight. He seemed far more relaxed than anyone else.

The Shrike retorted “And you, was he not your friend? You both had some unique hobbies.”

“Seems like his passion ended with him,” Crucendo replied, a softness to the phrase that made it cruel. “Last I heard from one of his slaves he was going to do some work in the Kingdom of the Desert. Got any information on that?” He turned to his left.

A woman who seemed to be the most normal looking one of the bunch lifted her gaze. No weird tendrils, no eccentric appearance, and definitely no strange appendages growing out of her body. Normal was wrong on her. It lay on her like borrowed clothes that hid knives. However, along with her holographic image, every now and then a shape would appear behind her, a wall of flesh and bodies, eyeless and tongue-less bodies stretched on a wall like a carpet that was half done. The wall breathed once with a ripple that might have been wind and might have been memory.

“I do,” she said as she turned to the group. Her hands were botched in blood, not hers, but from her work, stains that had chosen to live in the lines of her skin. “I sent him to the desert after all. It is my fault he is dead.”

“You cunt!” the Shrike’s voice hollered, rising until it scraped the stone. “What did you do to him?”

“Mind your manners, Shrike,” the Fanged Apostle spoke. He did not raise his voice. He had never needed to. Among everyone present, in terms of seniority, power, age and ability, he was by far the most competent. As he survived the empire for longer than seven hundred years, and even survived the hunt of the Black Mage Bastos Van Dijk every single time. For him to ask the Shrike to mind her manners, there was a subtle meaning behind it. That she would be way in over her league if she were to anger the woman she was cursing at.

“Tell me, Tiresia. What do you mean your fault?” the Fanged Apostle asked.

“He wanted to grow stronger, after the death of the Lich,” Tiresia said. She did not look at the Shrike again. She spoke to the room like it was a ledger. “He felt that a great threat is coming our way.”

“There is always a threat coming our way,” the Shrike said. The nail resumed its tapping, faster.

“I have seen it before he asked me for help.” Tiresia’s eyes unfocused for a heartbeat, as if they were looking through the wall of meat and far beyond. “I have seen how he would see victory only to taste defeat immediately after. A burning defeat that eats away the soul and the flesh. It is what I saw. He came to me that very day to ask me about the dream he had where he burnt in flames, which confirmed my vision.”

“And how does that make him just die? You are not making any sense,” the Shrike shirked. Her chair creaked like a cage that wanted out.

“It is what I asked him to do after,” Tiresia said. “I told him how to be immune to fire, and that is by consuming the Heart of the Moon.” She did not dress the words with apology. She laid them down like stones.

Silence tugged at the room. The globes pressed their light closer, shadows crowding under the table.

“And seeing that he died in the desert, I can only assume that he met his end in flames.”

“Now what?” the Shrike turned toward the Fanged Apostle. Her anger had nowhere to go and wanted a throat. “We will just wait and see how we die? One by one? Or are we going to do something about it?”

“First thing we need to do is figure out who killed him,” the Fanged Apostle said. His hologram steadied until it looked less like light and more like presence. “But I already have a hunch.”

“You think it is Titania? She is in the west after all…” The Shrike sounded eager for a target, any target to claw.

“No,” the Fanged Apostle shook his head. Even the shake felt measured. “If he wanted the Heart of the Moon, he will be at the Moon Temple. That temple prevents other divinities from interfering. If Titania were to walk into that, she is as good as dead.”

“The Moon God only has maidens to serve him. That pervert would never use a warrior. The Moon Princess cannot harm Faceless,” the Shrike said, satisfied at least with a rule that held.

“No she cannot,” the Fanged Apostle said. “Only one touched by divinity can even fight head to head against one of us.”

“You said that no divinity can interfere in the domain of the Moon God,” Crucendo said, folding the thought over once to see if it would tear.

“There is only one divinity that can act however it wants,” the Fanged Apostle replied, “regardless of who owns what domain, be it inner god, or even those exiled Old Gods.”

“Necros…” the words came out like a curse from the mouth of the Shrike. She spat to the side and the spit sizzled where it landed, which was a trick or an accident.

“Indeed. Seems like that boy had a hand in the death of our comrade,” the Fanged Apostle said. He turned toward Tiresia. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Seems like I have to fix this situation,” Tiresia said. Her hands curled once as if remembering a weight. “If he is still in the west, I will find him. If not I will have to draw him here, deeper, into the heart of the Kingdom of the Sands.”

“Do not act by yourself,” the Fanged Apostle said. “He is very crafty. Use the Envious Death to kill him.”

“She is too difficult to manipulate,” Tiresia said. The wall behind her shifted and a dozen mouths that had no tongues opened and closed on nothing. “He is a man, the Lustful Death ruling the Kingdom is a far better alternative.”

“No,” the Fanged Apostle said. “It will not work.”

“Why? No man can ever resist her beauty, not even women can,” Tiresia spoke. It was not pride. It was observation sharpened into a blade.

“It is not about that,” the Fanged Apostle said. “Let us say, different ideologies.” He laughed once, a sound with no warmth.

“He is into men?” she frowned. The Shrike snorted as if that would be a favor.

“That would have made everything easier,” the Fanged Apostle said. “It is not about allure or lust for him, so do not try and use Lust. She is far too vindictive.” The last word dropped like a stone into a deep well.

“You’re hiding something from us…” the Shrike said, but the fanged apostle simply smiled. He already know about ludwig’s undead nature, but never revealed it. Perhaps for his own personal reasons.

After scratching her head she said, “If I cannot use Lust or Envy, might as well get Pride in the picture.”

“Now we are talking,” the Fanged Apostle said. “Do you still have the key to the Tower?”

“I do.” Tiresia’s fingers twitched.

“Dangle it in front of him. It does not matter if the boy wins or loses. If he is stuck inside the Tower for all eternity it is as if he was permanently sealed. Get him to obtain the key, as naturally as possible. And I will find a way to lure him into the Tower myself.”

The plan settled over the table like a cloth, edges smoothed, corners weighed. The globes dimmed a fraction as if the room had exhaled.

The group seemed to reach a conclusion to their meeting and adjourned it right there. Holograms flickered, lines broke, faces smeared into light and then absence. Chairs that had never held a living body creaked anyway, as if remembering the weight of old decisions.

On the corner of the table however, a couple hidden figures simply watched the whole ordeal, offering no words of contribution, nor refute. They had the patience of spiders that learned to live without webs. If one were to gaze deep into their eyes they would see interest and greed, a slow, pleased hunger that did not mind waiting. One would only have to wait to truly know what the former apostles were planning. The room cooled a little, and the stone listened, and somewhere far above sand wind as if something large had turned in its sleep.