“PEOPLE OF ARRGODI!”
The voice boomed like a peal of thunder mingled with a grinding metallic sound. Ugraksh’s ears throbbed painfully at the sonic assault. Beside him, Kensura clapped her hands over her ears. Kewri did likewise. In the courtyard below, people reeled and fell back, stampeding to get away from this monstrosity that stood before the palace. Elsewhere, horses reared and whinnied in panic, elephants trumpeted in anger, kine lowed in protest, babies howled in dismay.
The being that had been Tyrak only a few moments ago now towered above the palace itself, its head a hundred yards high. It was the width and thickness of a mansion. Dust clouds, raised by its movement, boiled and seethed around it, lending it an air of sorcery, as if some conjuror had tossed down a crystal ball of magic powder and this impossible thing had emerged. The old puranas told of such things, creatures that altered shape at will, grew in size or diminished in stature as they pleased. But this was no creature out of a puranic tale. This was Tyrak. His son!
“By condemning my mortal body to death, you have released my true form. Until today, even I had only premonitions and glimpses of my true identity. But by putting me to the point of death, you have unlocked the secret of my true nature. This is who I am. Not a mere mortal like yourselves. Look upon me and weep, for I am your destiny.”
Ugraksh sucked in his breath, struggling to support his weight on the crook. He realized he was inadvertently stepping back, causing his balance to fail. He reached out and grasped hold of the balustrade, using it to prop himself up. It no longer mattered if anyone saw; no one had eyes for him or for anything except the giant urrkh that loomed in the palace courtyard. Yes, urrkh, for what else would you call that being? His mind shuddered to accept that which he was witnessing with his own senses. It was something out of scrolls recording ancient tales and forgotten legends.
Grotesque, malformed, hideously shaped, and barbed at unexpected places, it appeared to be more a war machine than a living creature. Its size was the least unusual thing about it. Its massive muscles were an epic parody of Tyrak’s own physique; its feet were ringed with a woollen down more goat- or sheeplike than human. It took a step forward, crushing the remnants of the execution platform to splinters, and the earth reverberated with the thud of the impact. When it spoke, its tongue protruded, a violent, swollen purple thing crawling with life: were those serpents weaving in and out of the flesh of its tongue? And the eyes, those terrible bulging eyes with the pinpoint pupils—there were living things squirming in its eyeballs as well, wriggling to and fro, falling off to land with a sickening plop on the courtyard far below. Each was the size of a finger and trailed a blood-red mucoid residue.
Yet despite this macabre transmogrification, there was no question that the being was still Tyrak. That face, swollen and fat with hatred and rage, those eyes glittering through the curtain of filthy ropes of hair, the overall shape of those features, that body, the way it moved and walked and turned its head . . . even the voice, thunderous and with its undertone of gnashing metal, was still recognizably Tyrak’s voice. As the creature turned, speaking almost to itself at times, with curious lapses into a kind of self-questioning tone, Ugraksh realized that the being was discovering its true self even as the rest of them viewed its transformation.
“Too long have I endured in this frail mortal form. Too long have I stayed imprisoned in that putrid cage of mortal flesh and bone. This is the day of my resurrection. By condemning my mortal body, you have set my true form free. Yet I do not thank you, for this too was ordained, as were all things that have passed and those that have yet to come to pass.”
The giant Tyrak took another step, this time stepping directly onto a section of the crowd of watchers who had come to witness the execution. Ugraksh saw a dozen innocents crushed like ants beneath the giant woollen foot. Tyrak did not even realize he had ended their lives; all he had done was shift his weight from one foot to the other. Ugraksh realized he must take charge of the situation somehow, or at least attempt to do so. At least the being was still trading words. Perhaps if he kept it talking for a while longer, he could delay any greater violence.
“Who are you?” he cried, his voice cracking with age and emotion. “You are not my son Tyrak. What are you? Identify thyself, creature!”
Tyrak turned and looked down at him. The yard-thick black lips curled to reveal ivory white fangs. “Who am I? Why, I am the one your wife named Tyrak. Do you not know why she named me so? Ask her, then. Ask her why she thus named your firstborn son.”
Ugraksh frowned. What was the creature talking about? Surely it was raving. Then he glanced at Kensura and saw the way she stared up at the urrkh, her face drained of all color, and suddenly a realization came upon him.
“My queen?” he asked. “What does this monster mean? Can you explain?”
She looked at him. In her eyes, he saw a terrible truth: She knows what the urrkh means. She knows!
“My lord,” she said. “It is a creature from the netherworld. A being out of myth. It seeks only to delude and confound you. Do not believe anything it says.”
But her voice rang false, and her face betrayed the truth.
Ugraksh hobbled over to where she stood, the crook striking the marbled floor of the balcony with a sharp crack. “Speak the truth,” he commanded her. “I demand it.”
She blanched and turned away. But he caught her arm and pressed upon it.
Slowly, with her head lowered and tears starting to drip, she said, “He was named after Tyrak the Urrkhlord.”
“Indeed,” said the giant towering above the city, its voice carrying to the farthest corner of Arrgodi, its terrible form visible everywhere across the city. There was a tone of glee in its voice now, as if it had finally unlocked a key secret, something it had long sought. “The Tyrant of Keravalune. For that is who I was in my past life until the stone god Vish defeated me and the Stone Sages condemned me to generations of imprisonment.”
Stone god Vish had defeated this being? Yes, Ugraksh recalled hearing some tale of this derring-do from his preceptor as a boy. Never had he expected to see the stuff of those fireside tales and bedtime stories come to life in this manner.
He raised his crook, pointing it angrily at the giant.
“What is it you seek here now? Why have you returned to Arthaloka? And why did you choose the body and form of my son as your receptacle?”
The bulging face stared down at him. Ugraksh saw now that there were things moving beneath the surface of the urrkh’s skin as well, all over his body. Tiny writhing forms in a variety of shapes—centipedes, millipedes, roaches, bugs, and other crawling creatures—traveling to and fro, causing the beast’s skin to ripple and bulge at unexpected places and in unsettling ways. He swallowed nervously, not letting himself think of the impossibility of fighting such a being. What weapon could he use against it? How many warriors would it take to lead an assault? Where and how would they strike at it? Could it be wounded? Killed?
“Your son?” The being that had once been their son issued a sound that made even Ugraksh cringe with pain. It was like a horse coughing right into one’s ear. Its spittle was alive; several writhing forms spattered onto the balcony coated in slimy white fluid. Ugraksh saw one crawling at his foot and brought the crook down upon it, impaling it. A tiny scream of agony reached his ears. He resisted the urge to void his guts over the balcony railing.
“I am not your son, Ugraksh. I have never been your son. I am not born of mortal man. Again, ask your queen if you do not believe me. Ask her with whom she lay in order to conceive me. It was no mortal man, lord of Arrgodi.”
As the being laughed, spewing living saliva, Ugraksh glanced at Kensura. She had fallen to the ground, her face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. He felt sadness for her, but also anger and disgust. Could it be true, then? Her reaction suggested it was. What did it matter now anyway? The crisis that faced him, that faced them all, was far greater than a mere question of paternity. The future of their entire race was under threat. He could be an angry husband later, in the privacy of his bedchamber; right now, he was still king of Arrgodi. And as king, he needed to know the enemy’s intentions.
“Tell me, then,” Ugraksh said. “What is it you desire now from us?”
Tyrak looked down at him, then up at the sky, then around. From that height, Ugraksh guessed the giant could surely see all Mraashk, as well as much of the surrounding countryside. He could probably cover the entire kingdom in a few hours if he leaps and runs. And he could destroy it in days if he wished.
Finally, the giant completed his examination and looked down again. Ugraksh glimpsed that same hideous smile again and shuddered. “Only what I deserve,” Tyrak said with unexpected simplicity, then added, “To rule the Arrgodi and Mraashk nations from now until the end of time. For I am immortal, and this boon is given unto me as my just reward.”
He seemed to pause and think for a moment, then all at once his face brightened grotesquely. He beamed with insane delight. “I am your new king, and as of this moment, I crown myself King Eternal. Bow to me, Arrgodi. Bow . . . or die!”