Undermind Book 5, Chapter 1: Serpent (Rough)

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Author's note: I said I might occasionally post new Undermind chapters while I'm in the midst of edits and writing the standalone novel, so here's one. I usually sit on chapters for a few weeks before posting them, and then give them another polish later. This one, I just finished today. So if you want to read something more polished, I suggest you wait until I remove the "(Rough)" label.

I want this chapter to serve as an entry point for people who have never read Books 1-4. I'm not sure if I've succeeded in that yet; probably need to flesh out the last section a bit for new readers. Also, this chapter feels a bit too infodumpy to me. Anyway, enjoy, and I'd be curious to hear your thoughts.

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Coiled around the scarred steps of his great ziggurat, Gothgorad the Serpent King watched his servants stream skyward, shedding their bodies as he might shed his skin. He could do nothing for them. Their fate was preordained.

Into the vast maw in the sky their souls flowed, joining those of the last world, and the one before that; on and on to the dawning of time. The Old God Ixathi fed well this morn. Straddling the mountains from horizon to horizon, Ixathi spread wide its flailing tendrils and screeched; a sound that froze the blood in Gothgorad’s veins and set the earth shuddering around him.

The winged prophet had foretold this day. “Ixathi will gather you all,” she had proclaimed before the jeering crowd. “Every last one of you. You who have grown fat with the souls of your forebears.” Then she had gazed up into Gothgorad’s eyes. “Except you, my king. Your fate will be different.”

At the time, the Serpent King had dismissed the prophet’s words. Her purpose had been to sew chaos, he had assumed. Chaos had indeed followed in her wake. Slaves had turned on their masters. Contracts had been sundered. And all of Gothgorad’s efforts to quell the unrest had come to naught.

But the prophet had spoken true. Ixathi had descended upon the world, bringing earthquakes that toppled mountains, sandstorms that swept away cities. And now the gathering of souls. Every soul, living or dead, from here to Lochluvien on the far western shore, drawn up into the Old God’s maw.

Every soul save one. Gothgorad himself.

Why he was being spared the fate of his servants, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was a reward. Perhaps a punishment. More likely, it was neither. Ixathi was a force of nature, beyond judgement, beyond morality. Perhaps the prophet had understood in some small way the purpose behind all of this. Gothgorad wished she were here now, so he could ask her, although he suspected she wouldn’t gave answered—not even if he threatened to spill her entrails atop the ziggurat. She had laughed in the faces of those who would have nailed her to a pentagram. And then…

Well, it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered. For the world was ended. And Gothgorad the Serpent King now ruled over naught but stone and sand.

He watched as Ixathi slowly withdrew its tendrils from the world, receding behind the moon. Receding, yet not departing. The Old God had always been there, prowling the sky; biding its time. And it always would be.

Gothgorad paid little heed to his surroundings; thought little of the passage of days. For he had fallen into a deep malaise. There were no more slaves to feed upon, so he did not eat. He slept, and woke, and slept again, and it wasn’t long before he couldn’t tell the difference between waking and sleeping.

Then, one day, he realised that his body had failed him. Now his mortal shell was naught but bleached bones strewn across the ziggurat, half buried under the sand. Gothgorad the Serpent King had died in his sleep, and he did not care. Now he was neither serpent nor king. He was just a frayed soul, drifting across the sands of a dead world.

But the world was not quite as dead as he had supposed. Summer storms brought fresh downpours from the western skies. And in their wake, a sprinkling of greenery began to peek out from beneath the soggy sand. In what seemed barely an eye-blink to the wandering soul’s stretched senses, the desert became a vibrant forest. Gothgorad had never imagined there could be so much green. The old world may have ended, but in its place there bloomed a new world, which he, in his infinite modesty, named Gothgoria.

In time, bugs and beasts and birds came to Gothgoria—slithering and crawling and hopping and flapping from the ocean to claim their new home. The new inhabitants of his world were like clay for him to mould as he saw fit. Gothgorad claimed one of their mortal forms as his own and lived anew, insofar as one could live in the body of a primitive beast. But his ambitions didn’t end there. After many years of patient practice, he learned to guide these creatures’ actions from afar with whispered commands. And slowly, over the course of millennia uncounted, he shaped the bodies of beasts into a semblance of the higher forms he knew from the last world: the beings that would come to be known as demons.

Under his guiding hand, a species of toothy mammals evolved into a close imitation of his most devoted pets from the time before: the fell hounds. Over time, this new breed grew to be smarter and more ferocious than their predecessors from the old world, but they were no less loyal.

He moulded the smallest of flying reptiles into the subservient, yet mischievous imps—a species of messengers and scouts and menial labourers. In the last world, the imps had been a source of minor annoyance, but after that world was ended, he’d found himself missing their callous pranks. Gothgorad would come to regret bringing them back.

Some of the female imps, he shaped into lusty succubi, who would serve as his concubines. Because even a being as ancient and powerful as he needed companionship. Other, larger specimens lost their wings, and grew tall and heavy and stern of demeanour. These became his personal guard, the stoic, deadly dread knights.

And so he continued the forging of his servants. Most of his creations were inspired by creatures from the old world, while a handful of breeds were entirely new, resulting from either chance mutations or deliberate experimentation. Though they weren’t created equal, all of his creations served their purpose. Even the pesky, rebellious imps.

With so many demons spreading out across Gothgoria, some unrest was inevitable. The Serpent King dined well on the souls of those who turned on him, adding their power to his own. One day, he vowed, he’d grow strong enough to challenge even Ixathi. It would be he who decided the fate of this world, not the Old God in the sky.

But it was not Ixathi who came to challenge him. Seemingly overnight, a new species appeared in Gothgoria. At first the Serpent king believed the creatures to be mutant succubi. The females of their species bore a superficial resemblance to his concubines, though they lacked vestigial wings, and they were as varied as they were flawed. A closer inspection revealed something stranger. The new species shared no ancestry with any species of demon, nor any other creature of this world. This could mean only one thing.

They were not of this world.

These invaders—these so-called humans—were well-equipped, organised, and united against demonkind. And to make matters worse, they wielded new and powerful magics whose workings were a mystery to him. The human magicians, called soulbinders, wreaked havoc upon his unsuspecting demons. Only after taking devastating losses were they able to regroup and strike back, with Gothgorad himself leading the offensive. Their attack ultimately failed to purge the humans from Gothgoria, but it did strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. The pendulum of fate swung back and forth many times over the centuries of war that followed, with neither side gaining the upper hand for long.

And so it went on, until the day the humans lured the Serpent King into a trap.

Standing amidst the burnt hovels of a wretched enemy village on the scorched plains of Agonda Voros, Gothgorad grinned at the human phalanx advancing upon his raiders from all sides. They thought they were so clever for surrounding his demons thus. He would show them the depths of their foolishness before they died.

Today the Serpent King wore the body of one of his dread knights: a powerful specimen, well-equipped for the bloodletting to come. His lips curled back to reveal his impressively pointed incisors. All the better for rending flesh and gorging on spleens.

“Mmm…how generous of you to bring me so many spleens,” he said to his enemies. “I do so relish those abdominal treats. So purple and juicy and delicious. Almost as succulent as your souls.”

If his words shook the humans, they showed no sign of it. Their jaws were set, and they continued to advance at a measured pace, tightening their noose around the sacked village.

“What say you, my servants?” he said to the demons gathering around him. “Are you ready for a feast?”

“Aye!” shouted the dread knights, thrusting swords to the sky.

“Aye!” roared the beelzebulls, pounding hooves into the dirt.

“Eheheheyeyeyeah!” cackled the cacodemons, waving their stubby little limbs in the air.

“Woof woof woof!” barked the fell hounds, spilling rivers of acidic drool across the parched earth.

“Um…nope,” chirped one of the imps, reclining on the back of his fell hound steed. “I just ate. But don’t let me stop you!”

Gothgorad was about to crush the little bastard into paste when he beheld another swarm of imps flitting above the humans’ heads. His flash of irritation turned to disgust. Those imps were not part of his raiding party. Imps may not be the most reliable of his servants, but not even they would openly defy him like this. Unless…unless the humans had ensnared them; bound them in invisible chains; forced them to come here.

There were warlocks among these humans.

Frail and weak-willed, imps were easy pickings for even marginally competent warlocks. Some daring warlocks sought to bind a succubus or fell hound or cacodemon. Occasionally they succeeded. Most became food or love slaves for those they sought to control. To the humans, the latter was a fate worse than death. Gothgorad liked to visit the kennels and listen to the fell hounds’ love slaves begging to be fed to the succubi.

But though their triumphs were few, warlocks were among the more troublesome human soulbinders he’d encountered over the centuries of their long war. Because of their efforts, Gothgorad could never be entirely certain his servants weren’t enemy spies, saboteurs or assassins. He’d had to slaughter entire settlements that had been infiltrated by warlocks’ minions.

Still, these warlocks had to be utterly mad to attack him directly. What did they hope to achieve? To bind his soul? The idea was laughable. He was the Serpent King. His soul blazed with the light of a thousand demons. He was immortal. And they were…food.

“Well what are you waiting for?” he bellowed to his servants. “It’s chow time!”

A cacophony of roars and barks and cackles arose from the demons as they surged towards the phalanx, eager to sink blades and claws and teeth into some haughty humans and their traitorous imp slaves. The humans gave an answering, though somewhat less rowdy, war cry, and dug their shields into the earth, hunkering down against the oncoming storm.

Let them cower there behind their shields. They would find no shelter there.

Releasing all constraints on his power, Gothgorad allowed his form to expand to the limits of what this vessel could contain. Soon, he towered over all of the combatants. His carapace ignited, and tongues of flame reached hungrily across the battlefield, scorching shields and the men behind them.

Chaos rippled through their ranks. The Serpent King let out a rumbling laugh, relishing in that moment of exquisite horror his enemies must be feeling as they began to comprehend the magnitude of their mistake.

Bolstered by his unfathomable strength, the demons tore through the line of shields like claws through…shields. Gothgorad would leave it to his succubus bards to come up with a poetic simile for this occasion. The symphony of screams emerging from the maelstrom of battle was enough of an aural delight for him right now.

The fluttering enemy imps unleashed a volley of darts down upon him, while swooping to evade his own imps. The Serpent King didn’t bother to dodge, for there was no need. He felt barely a sting as the darts clattered off his shoulder and chest. Even if they had been able to penetrate his hardened carapace, he was immune to just about every poison they could cook up.

Smashing through the enemy lines, Gothgorad pummelled his enemies with spiked fists, shattering pikes and caving in skulls and breastplates. It was glorious. So rarely did he get a chance to truly revel in the chaos of battle.

Except the Serpent King’s rampage was not entirely chaotic. He did have a goal. That goal waited atop a small hill overlooking the main force: a small group of lightly armoured humans on horseback, guarded by a contingent of heavily armoured defenders. Those were the generals and warlocks and other soulbinders who didn’t want to risk their precious heads in a direct confrontation. They had sent the soldiers to their deaths against his demons, and for what? He would see that they lost their precious heads regardless.

Without bothering to wait for his servants to catch up, Gothgorad charged up the slope towards the human leaders and magicians, half-expecting them to flee like the cowards they were.

They did not flee, and as he came near the group, his legs skidded to a sudden halt. Not because he chose to stop. Because his legs wouldn’t move.

Growling in frustration, he glanced down—and felt a tingle of alarm. He had shrunk back down to the size of a normal dread knight. But that wasn’t his biggest cause for concern. What bothered him was what he saw beneath his feet.

“Stay back!” he warned his servants who drew up behind them. “Binding runes beneath the soil. Clever humans.”

His words were for naught. Before the demons could escape to fight another day, bolts of demonsbane loosed upon them from dozens of outstretched hands. The roiling energy obliterated armour and scales and the flesh beneath, leaving only charred husks behind. Gothgorad knew that the demonsbane could just as easily burn through his own flesh. But equally, he knew that such an act would accomplish nothing. If the humans slew this body he wore today, his soul would be free to claim another. And they knew that too. So clearly they had some other goal in mind. Whatever that goal was, he knew he wouldn’t like it.

This whole battle had been a ruse. They’d sent their men and imps to die against his demons in order to lull him into complacency. So he’d think they were easy meat.

And now he was trapped, unable to move; his power contained. How utterly humiliating!

“Whoever devised this plan, I applaud you,” said the Serpent King. Then, swallowing his pride, he uttered the words he never thought he’d say to a human: “I wish to parley.”

“I think not,” said a voice from atop the hill. It was soft and sensuous, not unlike the voice of one of his succubi. But this voice, he recognised, and it belonged to no succubus.

“You!” he hissed. “How are you…?”

“Alive?” said the winged prophet. “That is not for you to know.”

“Then what is it you want from me?” he gasped, still straining to free himself from the runes.

“What do I want from you? Nothing. Not now. Not for a long time.” She hefted a silver spear in one hand, and strode down the slope towards him, before circling around behind him. Feeling the brush of her wingtip against his arm, and the tickle of her breath against his ear, he shivered inwardly. “All you need to do is…”

A sharp spike of pain drove down through his chest, followed by spreading numbness. His flesh…his flesh was turning to stone.

“…sleep.”

The Serpent King didn’t sleep. Not quite. A thin trickle of awareness lingered inside him as he knelt trapped in his stone prison, impaled through the heart by the prophet’s spear. Impaled, yet unable to die; unable to fly free and claim another body as his own.

The humans built a temple around him, and a labyrinth beneath. In time, they went away. Time held little meaning to him now, trapped as he was, unable to see the turning of the sun and stars beyond the temple walls. He was alone. Always alone.

And then one day he wasn’t.

Deep in the labyrinth, he felt her presence. He sent feelers of awareness, long unused, to investigate. And what he found astonished him.

A single imp, lurching drunkenly through the air as though she were a newborn fallen from a branch.

An imp! Never had he been so glad to see one of those fickle little creatures. What was she doing there!? How had she gotten there without him noticing?

Those questions could wait. First, he had to enlist her aid.

A whispered suggestion here, a little nudge there, and soon the imp was fluttering through a lighting tube to his prison. Assuming she would lack the strength to pull the spear from his chest, he gathered some of his own power to lend to her—only to discover that it wasn’t needed. The spear came free with seemingly little effort. Gothgorad’s body became flesh once more. He sagged to the floor, and succumbed to his wounds.

At last! After all this time, he could scarcely believe his turn of fate.

“Thank you, little imp, for setting me free!” he spoke into her mind.

“Uh…you’re welcome…I guess?” she said.

Oh this was too good an opportunity to pass up. The body of an imp—and a female imp at that—would be a significant downgrade from that of a dread knight, but beggar kings couldn’t be chooser kings. He could always trade it for a new body later.

“I accept your invitation,” he said.

Unable to suppress a gleeful chuckle, his soul floated free from his broken body, and into that of the tiny imp.

Once inside, her own soul lay bare for him. It had taken the form of a leafless tree, standing alone on a sun-drenched plain. How odd, but no matter. A soul was a soul. Only by consuming it could he lay claim to the imp’s body. Gothgorad’s own soul form was, of course, that of a serpent. He coiled about the tree, biting into it with glistening fangs.

Back in the waking world, the imp dropped to the floor, writhing in agony.

“Mmm…your soul is exquisite,” he told his meal. “So many layers; each one a unique and delectable flavour.”

“What are you doing?” she gasped, acting for all the world as though she didn’t know who or what he was.

“Isn’t it obvious? Tasting the sweet nectar of a juicy young soul, offered freely.”

“I didn’t—”

“Offered freely,” he insisted. “Such a deliciously generous gift.”

No sooner had he spoken than he sensed a change come over her. The bark of the tree seemed to grow harder, blunting his teeth. And the Serpent King felt the fist stirrings of fear.

“We’ll see just who devours whom,” hissed the imp.

Sharpened spurs shot out of the branches and trunk, piercing the very substance of his soul. The tree shifted around him, holding him tight, preventing him from wriggling free.

“W-what…?” spluttered the Serpent King. “How are you doing that!? You’re just an imp! You can’t restrain me!”

“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “I’m not just an imp. You should have done a little research before you tried to eat this soul.”

Not just an imp? What was she talking about? Could she be like him: an elder soul in possession of a lesser demon body?

And that was when he saw it: another soul, like a tiny chrysalis clinging to her tree. And it wasn’t the only one.

She was a soulbinder! How was this possible…? Demons couldn’t be soulbinders. That was human magic. But this…thing was no more a human than she was an imp. The imp was but the tip of a branch, reaching into this world from…somewhere else.

Flailing in confused panic, Rothgorad began to sink inside the tree. The edges of his soul began to fray, and he could already feel his consciousness fading. Eventually he would become part of the tree, and everything he had, everything he was, would be hers. After waiting all these ages to be free, to exact his revenge on the humans and the winged prophet and Ixathi itself, the Serpent King would meet his end, devoured by an unspeakable horror masquerading as a lowly imp.

Saskia Wendle blinked away the fog of sleep, and for a disconcerting moment she thought she’d woken up in some bizarre upside-down world. Then she remembered it wasn’t the world that was upside-down. It was her. This was the only way she’d been able to get any sleep last night: hanging by her talons from a dead branch, with her wings wrapping around her body like a leathery sleeping bag. Imps, it seemed, were the bats of this world.

Because yeah, surprise! She was an imp now.

That fact seemed tiny in comparison to what she’d just learned from her dream of the Serpent King. It was more than just a dream; that much was obvious. It was a memory. A memory of the demon she’d…oh god.

Had she been lying down, she would have sat up abruptly. Instead, she unfolded her wings and launched herself into the air, flapping wildly to steady herself.

“Hey Ruhildi,” she murmured, though her voice came out as more of a chirp. It would take a while to get used to these impish vocal chords. Assuming imps even had vocal chords. “You awake?”

“I don’t sleep,” came her friend’s voice in her head.

“Right. Well, you know that demon from the statue who tried to devour my soul yesterday, only I kinda-sorta…ate him instead?”

“Aye…no? What’re you on about, Sashki?”

“Huh. Guess you must’ve missed that part. So yeah, that happened. And…funny story. Turns out he’s a bit…bigger than I thought.” A small burp escaped her lips. “Damn, and now he’s giving me indigestion.”