Speaker in Darkness (novel hopefully)

The flesh is rotting beneath the surface, pus oozing into the depths of the organs. The twin assailants of virus and bacteria grind cells between them, leaving toxins and burst tissues in their wake. The body rises to defend itself, but in truth, there comes a time when the best solution to the wound is to cut anew, and divide healthy flesh from the tainted.

The Speaker in Darkness

Council Year 12, 4th month, 2nd day
Gatehouse Records
Release Report
Patient #7103, "Eric"

#7103 was silent throughout his first seven years here in the insane ward. He was in a perpetual catatonic state, able to be roused only when food was placed before him or he was told to lay down to sleep. #7103 was found on the shores of the River Ma'at, after, according to witnesses washing up on the shores of that river. That river, like others found throughout the Great Wheel has it's peculiar properties, and we assumed that like others who have endured the touch of the Ma'at's water he has simply succumbed to the madness induced by the visions of the water.

#7103 had only two incidents in his time here. The first when another patient was brought into the ward who seemed to recognize him. This patient, #8372, a cambion committed to the ward for paranoid symptoms, bolted past two guards in a clear attack on #7303 from behind. The assault was ended when #7103 took the gardening tool he was using at the time and swung it into the cambion’s face. #8372 was brought to the hospital ward for quick attention, though his eye was not able to be saved. All present at the incident indicated a belief that there was no feasible way for #7103 to have known the attack was coming in time to prepare himself.

The second incident was shortly before his release. Ex-Factol Tollysalmon asked for him by number, and he was brought to stand before her cell under high guard. Ex-Factol Tollysalmon spent three hours staring at him as he stood before her door silent throughout the examination. She spoke only once during this time, "Yes. You will turn meaninglessness on its head. I know where we shall send you. I look forward to your return." and had him returned to his cell.

A week later he escaped from his cell and was found in the center courtyard of the ward. He was standing, soaking wet, in the center of the courtyard looking upwards into one of the city's rain storms. He spoke for the first time to the guards who came to take him inside asking for water and giving his name as Eric. How he escaped from his cell is still an open question, and Eric has not indicated he remembers how he did it.

Eric was discharged three days later, to the portal of ex-Factol Tollysalmon's recommendation. He was sent with all of his personal possessions that were found on him at the time of admittance, and an additional allotment of spare clothing and 10 silver.

Baator,
The Seventh Layer, Maladomini
Malagard

There is a rhythm to a plane of law, a steady drumbeat to which its occupants step, guided wither they are aware of it or not to their position within the plane's dance. In some places this music is slow and steady, the gentle beat of a slow dance for lovers. Some planes hold a beat quietly within, the layered ticking of a clock. In other places it is measured and firm, the pace of a marching army or executioners workload. The music changes by plane, and even by layer or place. Maladomini's beat is measured by its construction - the ringing taps of chisel to marble, the ear numbing punctuation of strip mining blasts, all gathered together within a glorious cacophony of sawing, hammering, drilling, forging and mining. The rhythms of timecards marked, and the low moan of slave labor.

Maladomini is a plane seeking perfection, the perfect city and the perfect lair for its obsessive compulsive Lord. The plane is scattered with work projects, some completed, but none of them perfect in the eyes of their Lord. His current attentions reside with Malagard - a city of black marble, fountains, and soaring height - all lined out in perfect edges and ninety degree corners. There are no flowers here and there are no trees, save for those carved from black marble in perfect representations of the original. Malagard is known as the First City as each of the cities abandoned by their maker were called before. First in his gaze and attention, and most perfect of his creations. At least for now.

The occupants of the First City moved from task to task - scaling scaffolding, and sealing marble in place by sheer effort. It was this that Narzikus the Patient, osyluth in the service of Lord Baalzebul watched over. His job was simple. Observe the supervisors in service to the Lord. Make sure they do their work and do not slack. Report laziness to his commander. Report fraud to his commander. Report subversion to his commander.

Narzikus paused at the edge of a half constructed tower - the bony ridges of his face locked in a permanent snarl as he looked over the backs of the slaves below. He was happy, as much as a Baatazu could be that is, his job was simple and the contractors in his area of the city were for the most part it seemed, honest workers. Mercenary only in their prices, but not thieves. They had their profit from the growth of the city and they were content with that.

A line of slaves trudged by slowly, drawing with ropes and the aid of smooth logs a block of marble three times his size. He reached out as the marble passed pressing a hand to the stone and feeling the innate warmth of its surface. It was freshly mined from the innards of Maladomini and like many of their recent shipments arrived warm, steaming in the coolness of the city.

"Hot isn't it?"

Narzikus started, lifting his hand quickly as he whipped around. A poison tipped bony tail hovered at his left shoulder in reflex as he located the speaker. He sighed.

"Yes, Aetherus - unusually so. Have we had any word from the mine regarding the origin of it?"

"None yet, all they say is that it keeps getting warmer the deeper they reach and that the stone holds its heat far longer than it should. The mine is having to replace its workers at an astounding rate. Before long we will be forced to upgrade to a... tougher breed of slave." The hamatula shrugged, a fluid movement under centuries of muscle built by work. "Mortals tire too easily - we'll simply have to have them haul instead." He gestured idly at the next train of slaves busily laying logs before a massive block.

Narzikus nodded, turning to look at the rising tower the marble was destined for. Even from this distance the faint waver of heat coming from the topmost parts of the work could be seen.

"Do you think he'll be displeased?"

Narzikus glanced back, the tip of his tail twitching to the left slightly. "...he?"

"Lord Baalzebul."

"... I don't..." A sudden silence interrupted his words as the slaves as a single unit ceased their work, kneeling as a whole to the ground under the harsh eye, and harsher whip of their task master.

"... well. We'll find out won't we?" Aetherus didn't quite manage to conceal his smug enjoyment of the moment.

The march of feet echoed down the main road of this section of the First City, turning into the first of an armed escort. The baatazu troops spread through the courtyard at the feet of the tower, stepping through paths the slaves scrambled to form for them. If a few fingers were stepped on, not a sound was made.

Narzikus's tail lashed for a brief moment, the tip snapping into the ground at his side with a sharp crack of irritation. It drew a slow line across the marble, not quite sharp enough to scuff the polished surface before he fully regained his composure.

Following the troops, came a carriage of wrought iron, solid black inlaid with silver and gold. Rigid patterns of straight lines and ninety degree angles worked themselves up the corners of the carriage to meet above the square window in the door. As the carriage stopped, a second set of personal guards circles shoulder to shoulder defining the boundaries beyond which an approacher would need permission to pass. Gauzy curtains obscured the individual within, even as it allowed him or her to gaze out upon the masses assembled. With a chill down his spine, Narzikus realized just who was observing them from behind the curtain. A half beat behind the others who were more prepared for the event, he went to one knee. The tip of his tail skittered across the stonework restlessly as he felt a heated gaze settle upon the boned ridges of his back.

A soft murmur from the carriage was dimly heard over the low breath of wind through the assembly. The coachman, a mortal of unknown origin, nodded to the figure behind the curtain, sitting up straight on his bench again and nodding to the closest of the guards. Narzikus glanced up as the clawed feet of a xyz, and stood forcing a sense of calm through his body as he followed the guard to the carriage. He was allowed within the protective circle, and approached the carriage until a whispered "Stop." told him to stand still. He locked his eyes to the footboard at the bottom of the door.

"You are Narzikus?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"You are the observer for this section of the city?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"How goes the construction."

"We are operating on schedule."

"And the stone work?"

"As reported, the mines have been unusual of late - but they are still producing stone within your specifications."

"Hm... Do you have anything else to report?"

"My lord?" Narzikus risked a glance upwards, catching a glimpse of the squat lumpy form backlit behind the curtain, and abruptly jerked his gaze downwards. "I do not understand the question, m'lord. I file my reports every morning with my superiors."

There was a moment of silence. "Do you have anything to report to me that you would not report to your superiors?" There was a hint of impatience in the voice, and the silence continued as Narzikus tried desperately to ignore the seepage of slime from beneath the door. As a droplet fell from the lower panel to the footrest, he cleared his throat.

It seemed his Lord was already expecting a particular answer. If that were so, and he answered with the truth, that he had seen nothing, then he could lose his place for incompetence. If he answered with a lie, then he would lose his place and his life for the falsehood. All in all, not a good place to be in.

"...my Lord. I must admit I have little extra to report, if I have missed something then it is a flaw in my abilities for which I apologize."

There was a momentary surge in the trickle of slime as his unseen Lord shifted his weight within the carriage, and a wash of acrid stench slipped past the fine silk curtain. "Honest." The scoff that followed twisted the already twisted stomach of the osyluth that stood before the carriage. "You will do." A low rumble came from the darkness within the carriage before the coachman scampered from the heights of his seat. He pressed a slim folder into Narzikus's hands before returning to his seat.

"Your reassignment is contained within. You begin tomorrow morning."

"Yes, m'Lord." Narzikus pressed the folder against his breast bone, and bowed his head awaiting his dismissal. There was a faint rustle behind the curtain and the coachman pressed his crop to the osyluth’s shoulder, pressing him back slightly in cue. With that, Narzikus stepped backwards three steps to pass through the circle of guards again and returned to his place within the crowd. Another of the supervisors was summoned forth and he sighed, crouching down in his kneel, eyes sealed shut as he allowed his relief to wash through his mind. The folder, marked with the seal of Baalzebul himself remained clutched tightly in both hands throughout the hours of meetings as the Lord of the Seventh indulged in a moment of micromanagement.

* Misspellings, misnamings, etc are all my fault. I'm working on this at work - so don't have reference material around. Yes, I'm also way behind. Oh well. Word Count: 2053