They say Kath’le Kal was split in two the day when brother and sister killed each other beneath the throne. There is a wound there now, a crater and a pulsing sore formed from fire and gastrointestinal fluid. The sands stir and the rivers of pus and blood flow to dam the hole. Yet this wound will never heal. Yes, there is an ulcer in the belly of the Great Devourer that burns and itches, itches, and burns. No wonder she is in such a bad mood.
A full day after the battle, and his wings were still too soft. Xerxes licked the silver stalk as soft as butter; too salty. He had to dilute it, so he dunked his head in a vat of water, draining the fluid by half. These injuries were far deeper than he had feared. It took everything he had to fly back to his hive, landing upon his mother’s soft palate seconds before the last of his membrane tore through. The pain was hard to ignore, a throbbing sore like a welt just under the tongue. Still, it was his pride that took the biggest hit.
Xerxes was foolish to believe that his tempest would be enough for a second war. His younger brothers and sisters still had much to learn, but Icarus was ready. That titanic abomination had soaked up the static and launched it right back at Xerxes’s harpies. The feel of those luminescent threads slipping through his fingers gave him chills.
At least Xerxes now had a taste of what it was like to lose control of his brood. A taste he wouldn’t soon forget.
As painful as defeat was, Icarus’s assault had fallen short of its goal. Xerxes was alive, and now was the time for change.
The return of the crimson rain signaled an end to the month-long drought. That red liquid was thick and fell faster than rainwater, crashing upon the starving sands. The plains of Kath’le Kal soaked up the fluid like a thirsty animal. Yes, this water was gone in a flash. That’s why the design of a hive was just as crucial as the larvae within.
Xerxes had perfected his kiln with sweeping arches that hung down from the soft palate. He coated the surface with a waxy layer, so droplets never stuck but slid down the sides, collecting into pools below, broad leaves of flesh and pale corridors that dug into the roof. Still, that was only the tip of the iceberg. The roots of his hive sunk deep into the soft palate, drawing the first taste of the crimson rain before it seeped through the tissue and fell to the sands below.
When the rains finally stopped, his hollow corridors were filled to the brim with soft clay ready to be shaped.
Of course, others tried to copy his design; to emulate perfection. Xerxes killed them, knocking their hives down while they budded from the ceiling. They were the first engineers to die, the ones who got too close, the ones bold enough to test their wings and fly.
No other engineer would rule the skies or command the storm like him. Still, if he was to overcome Icarus, he had to try something new, something unexpected. That’s why he ditched the antennae and tossed out the wings.
Elegant designs were hard to walk away from, but new ones always waited in the wings for those bold enough to step forward. There was an idea bouncing around in Xerxes’s head. An idea that came when he stumbled upon another engineer’s designs.
Pillaging the remains of one of his younger brother’s kilns, he found a strange mixture deep within. Tiny sacks of green and black fluid that tasted much too sour. Separate, these fluids were harmless and like the ichor that pumped through the veins of all eldriatus. However, mixing but a single drop of black and green fluid generated an intense flame. One that burned through the kiln and deep into the sands below. The younger engineer was mixing the substances into the blood of his creations. One beast with green veins, another with black. Yes, larvae that dared to sink their fangs in both would bathe in white fire.
A simple, clumsy design that fell flat against hordes that killed from a distance. A lack of ingenuity, but still an intriguing blueprint, one that could be perfected.
Xerxes’s fingers quivered as he touched the crimson rain swirling the fluid under his palm. There were only three things that could bring such joy to an engineer. Tasting the Pallid duchy, victory over a challenging opponent, and shaping clay; their mother’s gift.
He started with the body, shaping folds and ridges, lumps of thick flesh that were hard to cut and bite into. He rolled the dough until it was the length of an entire corridor, adding more clay to support its girth. There was no room for eyes, teeth, or claws, and so his maggot was blind, deaf, and unable to walk, but there wasn’t any need.
Xerxes drew from Icarus’s design, molding a flexible spine and pressing the thick substance into the largest mold he had ever worked with. He hung the hollow maggot from the ceiling of his hive; the walls groaning from the weight. The insides were next.
Xerxes twisted and pinched a lump of clay into twelve valves and eight separate junctions, an orchestra of tissue conducting fluids throughout the body. Next came two lobes with branching tongues to catch oxygen and a smooth ciliated interior to filter out toxins. The trachea was a simple matter, and he closed the esophagus. No need for a stomach.
The liver was the tricky part. That tissue was so large it made up most of the maggot’s open cavity. He designed it like a balloon with a matrix that expanded, pushing the kidneys hard against the abdomen. The gall bladder, too, was made to stretch, albeit much smaller than the liver. Finally, the spleen had to go. There was no room left.
Xerxes filled the liver with a sour black fluid, the same from his memories. He could determine the composition from taste alone. A drop of milk from his ear, pinches of salt from beneath his scales, and plasma from under his skin. Xerxes Stirred everything together and out poured a sour black sludge, causing the organ to swell.
The green fluid was very different. It required milk without salt or plasma, ether without ginger or cloves, and alcohol without sugar and water. He had to be careful, stir too long, and the liquid came out thick and viscous like butter at room temperature. No, he needed the fluid to be smooth and creamy, but still sour to the taste. Xerxes tossed several batches before getting it just right. Then, he poured the green vat into the open end of the gallbladder, stretching the tissue to its limit. Once full, he tied off the flesh and wrapped a single luminescent thread between the liver and bladder, closing the valve. This way, the fluids would incubate separately and couldn’t mix.
Satisfied with his work, he closed the abdominal cavity, nestling the maggot close to the folds of his kiln. The walls were a little too sweet, but with a few drops of his blood, the oven was ready.
Xerxes sat back on his haunches, fingers twitching and skin pale. He’d used much of his nutrient stores, and it made him light-headed, but there was no rest for the wicked.
The rest of the day was spent shaping a new legion of harpies, but this time, he gave them a firmer grip and thicker wings. Perhaps he could fool Icarus into thinking he was brewing another tempest. Distract him just long enough to fly his new creation into the fold.
How destructive could it be? He wondered, chunks of sleep breaking loose as he yawned. Another day and his larvae would be ready.
The old rat was going to pay dearly for yesterday’s insult.
— ✦ —
There was a sudden crash against his ear, a shuddering that broke the calm of his hive. Xerxes’s eyes slid open, moving from left to right. He waited a moment, hoping that it was just an involuntary spasm, shifting of the smooth muscle within the kiln.
It wasn’t.
Boom!
This one struck close to home, the entire hive shuddering at once as larvae fell from the ceiling. Xerxes grabbed hold of the nearest spire as the ground shook.
Was it Icarus? He panicked. No, Impossible; how did the old rat find him so fast?
The surrounding walls groaned as something pulled hard, the pressure mounting.
Crack!
Something poked through his kiln, a spear projection at the end of a long filament. At first, it was like a needle puncturing through flesh, but once inside, it split open into five digits, digging into the walls as something pulled at the other end of the rope. Then, his hive nudged forward, the roots pulling free as the soft palate bled.
“No!”
Xerxes wasn’t ready, not now when his harpies were still soft. They couldn’t fly, and nor could his vibriatus, wings still tender from the previous fight.
Crack!
The hive shuddered once more, roots pulled further from the soft palate, the spires now dangling by a thread.
He had no choice but to sound the alarm. Dragging his claws across the kiln’s wall, he opened a hole, nutrients spilling forth like a waterfall. Under his eye, nearest a series of benign ducts, was a sac filled with a pale white sap. Xerxes tore one open, weeping white fluid into the pulsing gash. The reaction was instantaneous; the hive convulsing sporadically as the larvae spun, breaking out of their cocoons.
The first harpies collapsed to the ground coughing up clear fluid, their bodies still reddish-brown and fingers soft. They didn’t have time to catch their breath nor lick the yolk from their wings. Xerxes leashed their minds with luminescent thread and swung the line, forcing them to their feet. Many didn’t make it, dropping dead as the whip struck.
“It's too soon, too soon!”
He pushed them forward; the larvae crawling along the floor by the hundreds, wrapping around the hive roots and pulling back against the force that threatened their home.
Another lurch, but this time, the hive held. Xerxes leashing another hundred harpies between the soft palate like glue.
There were screams now as the giant maggot thrashed about, breaking loose the bonds that held it in place.
“Too soon!”
Crack!
Another harpoon shot through the kiln and clenched the walls tight, adding more pressure. The hive heaved once more, harpies screaming as they fell to the sands below. Xerxes, too, grabbed hold of the roots, pulling back so hard he ripped nails out from under his skin. It wasn’t enough.
The hive tore free from the soft palate, blood and viscera falling like rain, the pale structure breaking open on jagged rocks and thick sand. Xerxes tried to open his wings, tried to catch the wind and cushion his fall, but the membranes tore open once more. He fell like a rock, snapping his wrist on a piece of the kiln.
Xerxes cried out; bones poking through scale and skin, the world spinning around him as his larvae dropped from above and broke open like soft sacks against jagged stone, only a few surviving their fall.
He rolled over onto his side, right lung punctured, gasping for air. Soon, the tiny glowing thread tied between his knuckles shook as the giant maggot rolled out onto the sands protected in the softer folds of his kiln. The creature wiggled helplessly, unable to scream like its siblings or lash out at its foes. Xerxes held the line steady, trying to find his footing when the second attack began.
They came from beneath the sands, a pod of orca slick from birth dorsal fins breaking across the surface. They struck like lightning, dragging the survivors below the soil. Xerxes knew this design, had seen it before, but couldn’t put his finger on it. Then, suddenly, came a howl, and a giant whale burst from the sands knocking free what little breath he had left.
Coughing up blood, he tried to round up the survivors, but it was too late. Again, the bundle of luminescent thread had slipped free from his fingers, and the larvae panicked dragged beneath the dunes. There was still one thread attached, a single glowing line that walled off the gallbladder and the liver, but the pod had turned their attention on the maggot, sinking their teeth into its hide: much too thick for the likes of them. Still, they dragged Xerxes’s bloated abomination beneath the sand.
The fluid hadn’t cooked through, it was glossy and stunk like sour milk. But what choice did he have? Unstable or not, it was the only card he had left to play.
Another orca burst through the soil, latching onto his leg and pulling him under the sands. Xerxes scales were shaved off as dirt and sand whipped past his head like turbulent winds. He couldn’t see the maggot, eyes sore from the gravel that cut deep.
He had no choice.
Using the last of his strength, Xerxes pulled the luminescent line between his thumbs, opening the bile duct into the liver. There was a delay, four seconds for the valve to open, four seconds for the green river to meet black.
Four
The pod pulled him through the epithelial layer, dunking him headfirst into a river of pus, a fresh wound in his mother’s endothelial layer. The currents were violent, ripping him into a chaotic cyclone, an immense whirlpool of dense white fluid.
Three
He was surrounded by shrieking larvae struggling to keep their heads above the sea while orcas pulled them under. Their attackers were at home in the chaos, fins flowing with the current and not against it. Then, finally, Xerxes was pulled under, and, through a foggy film, he could see the pod. A coordinated hoard born not of scale and claw, but smooth leather-like hides, jagged teeth, and spiky digits with thick scarred membranes.
Two
The world spun, a dizzying dance as Xerxes gulped for air, pus sticking to the inside of his mouth and the back of his throat. One of the whales was firmly latched onto his leg, dragging him deeper and deeper until he could touch the surface of his mother’s endothelial lining. There was no way out, no chance to survive.
One
There was a blinding flash before the quake and a terrible ringing noise that drowned out all the clutter, the screams, and the boiling water. Before the world split in two, he had time enough for a single thought.
What have I done?
Persephone knew Xerxes would hide somewhere close to the tonsil. He always wished to monitor the prize. Not that she blamed him. The structure was immense, a sweeping stalactite that now hung so low from the soft palate that it was practically touching the dunes. Its blue light had grown more intense, and the throne was about to open.
“I can see it,” Ingenuity said, the skull clicking in her ear and directing her pupils towards the lower corner of her mother’s soft palate.
There was that eye for detail again. Indeed, she could make out the arches of Xerxes's hive above. So now was the time to teach him that Icarus wasn’t the only one who could adapt.
Fortitude snapped the whip, pushing forward her new design, a pod of bloated orcas that peeked just above the surface of the sands. She had embedded a harpoon in their foreheads; a claw-like bone meant to puncture and hold tight. Just beneath the skin, she fashioned a pressurized sack and looped a mile-long tendril in the empty nasal canal. With a sudden burst of steam, the harpoons were launched straight into the soft palate.
Xerxes hive shuddered, a few lumps of flesh raining down from above.
“Pull!” Fortitude shouted, cracking the threads once more.
The orcas spun around, pulling the ropes taut as they beat the sand, dust rising around them. Persephone had coiled thick bundles of muscle fiber along every fin, vertebrae, and shoulder bone. These beasts of burden could take the weight without tearing tendons and ripping muscle. Then, the hive inched forward as the roots were pulled free, a wave of activity now crawling along the halls.
She had kicked the nest, but these bees couldn’t fly. Persephone smiled as another harpoon struck the wall, the rope groaning from the weight but holding fast. She was right to sacrifice mobility for elasticity and tensile strength. Still, the hive wasn’t budging anymore; Xerxes hoard was holding it tight to the soft palate.
Again, she swung the whip, bringing forward another dozen orca from the sands. Six more harpoons struck home, causing the kiln to shutter and the roots to rip free from the Overworld.
“Dive!” cried Navigator as she broke through the epithelial layer to escape the plummeting structure.
Beneath the sands, she could feel the earthquake as her brother’s kiln struck the topsoil, breaking open upon their mother’s lower teeth.
“Time to feed!” shouted Gluttony as Persephone drove the rest of her brood above the soil.
They broke the surface of the dunes, bearing down on her enemy without mercy. The tiny larvae with soft wings and incomplete lungs gasped for air as the first of her pod sunk their teeth deep and dragged them beneath the soil.
“I told you,” Wisdom said amidst the chaos. “They cannot fly.”
True, but pulling wings from mewling babes wasn’t her goal. Where was Xerxes? She couldn’t give him the chance to escape and adapt. She wouldn’t make Icarus’s mistake.
“They got him, already,” Temperance said.
There were a few threads that dug into the soft tissue between her fingers. Some of the orca had latched onto the primordial engineer dragging him beneath the dunes. Better to have him drown in the viscous soup below. She wasn’t so prideful as to believe he needed to die by her hands. She turned towards the broken kiln, which still convulsed, leaking ichor upon the sands. That’s when she saw it; an immense writhing maggot with thick folds of flesh and a toothless maw that retracted into itself as her orcas snapped under its chin.
What was that?
The creature had no antennae and no wings of any kind, so atypical of the hollow spear’s designs. No, this beast was a giant with a spine that reminded her of the old rat. Even soft, its skin was so thick her pod couldn’t break through. Still, surely it had to breathe.
The orcas pulled the squirming maggot beneath the sands, and Persephone dove to the river. She broke through the epithelial lining, plunging into the swirling waters, fan-like digits poking through her thin membrane to guide the whirlpool. The last of Xerxes's brood gasped for air, already driven mad, dragging each other under the waves, each trying to stay above the water. Her brother’s writhing abomination sunk like a stone, the current unable to sweep it away. That’s when she heard a crack, a snapping whip from a single luminescent thread.
“Something is wrong,” Wisdom said.
There was a sudden calm, a whisper in the wind that caused every hair along her neck, every ciliated disk, and truncated fiber to stand on end. Then came the pit in her stomach and a cold sweat that broke out across her dorsal fin.
“Swim!” Navigator screamed as she dove into the water, swimming away from the open wound.
Persephone followed the currents south, zipping through the fluid at dizzying speeds. She hadn’t time to settle her inner ear, and the world spun. Had she been in control, her head would’ve bounced off the endothelial layer, but Navigator winded through the snaking river with such ease, even with hell at her back.
The flash came before the sound, a blinding white light shooting up from the center of the Overworld. Even at a distance, she could feel the heat, a searing blaze that vaporized the rivers and melted sand into pools of boiling tar and magma. Then came the sound, an earth-shattering wave that broke her tympanic membrane, blood spilling from her ears as she was launched from the river. The force catapulted her through the epithelial layer, where she broke through like a brick through glass.
Persephone flew so far she grazed the tonsil before falling back down and crashing into the dunes. Two of her heads ripped free from her body, the sand grinding down her scales until her skin ruptured underneath. Finally, she rolled to a stop; dunes pushed up around her like a crater and comet’s tail.
There was a ringing in her ears that wouldn’t stop and a coppery taste in her mouth where she bit clean through her tongue.
Which heads were gone?
Persephone rolled to her side, coughing up blood. The spirit of Temperance and Fortitude dangled from the open cavities in her neck like old cobwebs. She leashed Temperance to Gluttony and Fortitude to Ingenuity; they would have to share skulls for now.
Then, Persephone rose to her feet, a pain in her right leg where the shin bone broke through, and her left most arm was missing. The world spun, lights flashing before her eyes, but even dazed, she could make out the destruction in the distance.
A cloud of ash as large as the sea broke upon the ceiling above, rolling over it like storm clouds, flashes of lightning and thunder cracking along each arm. Beneath the tempest was a mile-wide hole, chunks of flesh still raining down from the heavens. She could smell the molten rivers, hairs on the inside of her nose burned to the nub. The tonsil had absorbed some of the impact, now waving like a struck pendulum, whipping up dust and driving air currents into a frenzy.
The sands of Kath’le Kal rose now, kicked into the air by violent forces and collapsing back down onto the Overworld. Never had their world seen a dust storm of such ferocity winds tearing past her cheek and scraping off the tiny scales just under her nose.
“Xerxes couldn’t have survived that,” Faith said beneath her waist.
“We have to know for sure. This one is too dangerous for us not to be sure,” Wisdom said.
She was right. Persephone drew in a deep breath, but she could only smell copper and baked kidneys. Chunks of flesh rained down around her, the remains of her pod, the right flank she’d been so proud of. At least a few from the left were still kicking.
“We have to be sure,” Persephone said, slithering forward into the clouds of dust, the Overworld trembling beneath her.
She hadn’t yet felt the weeping, the streams of crimson tears down her cheeks. The hollow spear was alive, but only just; a knife balanced at the edge of the table.
She had to find him and kill him before it was too late.