At the end of the hall, lost among the stench and the dangling cadavers, was Kerr. But he was nothing like the man they’d once known. 

 

Seated upon the skull-dais at the chamber’s end, he did not appear to notice them.

 

Nevertheless, the party negotiated the landscape of bodies and fallen sculptures that divided the great hall. 

 

The former counselor was as motionless as a stone carving, as if long in waiting or deep in contemplation. He did not react as they approached. A weird mist hung all about him, a black and sickly-green sort of fog. The iridescent shroud lent his skin and his bald head a shade like verdigris-copper. The long, forked beard that hid the lower half of his face was also a mix of black and green strands. 

 

All he now wore was the tattered remnant of his cloak, the upper section torn away and tied off with a frayed rope-belt, obscuring everything beneath his waist in blood-stained rags. Above that he was naked, at first glance restored to perfect physical condition, without a hint of the affliction he had so long endured. 

But as they neared, it became clear that Tarquin’s supposition was correct. Kerr had traded one infestation for another. 

 

While he sat motionless upon his throne, something else did move. Inside of him. Undulations rippled beneath his skin, as though serpents slithered through his veins, crawling up an arm or across his face, or burrowing into his chest. Kerr seemed to neither notice nor care. The shifting and rolling under his flesh did not alter his stoic expression or provoke a single gesture. 

 

Parasitic cysts appeared as well, expanding over his bare skin. Some stretched outward like the branches of a fast-growing tree, obscuring his flesh for a time before sinking back as though re-absorbed. Others coiled about him like thorny vines or nesting vipers, some so thick they merged in places to form segments of insect chitin, enveloping him in a partial carapace before dissipating. 

 

When they got within twenty paces, the stench of brimstone and ammonia grew too pungent, halting them. It was there, near enough to discern more detail, that they realized it was not a fog that enveloped him, but a hive. A host of dark organisms buzzed in constant orbit. Some were as large as locusts. Others were smaller than flies. Their swirling produced a permanent hiss that filled the chamber with a high-pitched murmur; an almost predatory hum. 

 

Slade held his breath as he stepped a little closer to the solemn, ghoulish figure, but even at such close range he could see no other movement. Kerr’s eyes were inhuman, glossy black without a hint of color. They seemed to gaze off into the distance as though time itself had stopped. 

 

They didn’t even blink. 

 

Ever wary, Slade raised his hand. His palm was open, though he guessed that Kerr sensed no threat. The peace offering produced no effect. 

 

“Gotta hand it to you,” Slade said. “You’re looking better than ever, old buddy.” 

 

Even as the words left his mouth Slade was thrown backward. A gust of wind assaulted him. The frost-gale dropped him to his knees. He raised his hands to his throat. Fumes choked his lungs. Toxic cold prickled his flesh. 

 

By the time he was able to lift this head, the wind had vanished. Kerr stood over him. In an instant he had covered the distance between them, although no one saw him move. A pendant-chain laced with basilisk fangs hung about his neck. The stolen teeth gleamed in the greenish haze. 

 

To his left, Slade saw Threya. She too had been caught in the swirl of cold, poisonous smog. He felt his feet leave the ground, as the both of them were lifted into the foul air, weightless and suspended as Kerr watched them. 

  

For a long, silent moment they hung there, choking on the stench, unable to break loose. Kerr just stared at them, seemingly content to watch the life ebb from their bones.