by C. M. Carney
“You have fulfilled your purpose and now I am free,” Baelmaera chortled, her voice nowhere and everywhere. A wave of energy exploded from her corpse snapping the black blade in half, the hilt spinning through the air and disappearing over the edge of the platform.
The chaotic essence that was Baelmaera poured over and past Tal, but he did not fall to its onslaught.
“Not today Baelmaera.” He grunted with effort, turned his hand around and closed his fist. The wave of expanding energy slowed and then stopped and Baelmaera’s joyous laughter stopped with it. Tal squeezed his fist tighter and the wave of energy pulled back towards a singular point as if time had been reversed.
Tal roared and drew all of her energy into him. She resisted, the energy lashing at him from all sides as it drew closer and more compact, but Tal refused to give up. With one last howl of rage and purpose, Tal absorbed the entity known as Baelmaera and buried her in the prison at the heart of his spiritual fortress.
Silence hung heavy for a moment and then Odymm Tal, Arch-Deacon of the Circle, Grandmaster of Order, collapsed.
36
“When I came back online, I found Tal slumped and broken beside me.” Jurredix paused, tracing the scar on his cheek with a gentle hand. “I feared he was dead, or worse yet turned to chaos. I knelt at his side, ready to do what was required. As a construct, I lack emotions as you mortals would describe them, but when Tal opened his eyes and smiled through bloody teeth, I felt joy.”
Lex’s jaw hung open as Jurredix finished his tale and he turned to Tal. Full understanding of the burden carried by the Grandmaster filled him. “It’s not a Chaos Spore, but Baelmaera herself.”
“Yes,” Jurredix said, his voice an odd combination of pride and sorrow.
“Why?” Lex asked, his voice incredulous and filled with awe.
“To prevent her renascence.”
“Yeah, I’ve got no idea what that word means.” If Lex was upset by his lexicographic failings or even understood the irony, he did not show it.
“It’s a snazzy way of saying reborn,” Vonn said.
“Wait, you guys were serious when you said these jackholes can’t die?”
“They are not alive by the strictest definition of the word. They are eternal sentiences that coalesced untold eons ago around a singular concept. Pestilence, madness, carnage, decay and with Baelmaera, deception. The body Tal destroyed was but a vessel. Without that vessel, Baelmaera’s spirit was incapable of interacting with the physical world, but she was also free of her prison. Given time she would have reformed. That is why the other Princes left her in a state of perpetual torment.”
“You could have just said yes.”
“I did.”
“If we survive this, we're gonna have some tutoring sessions so I can teach you how real people speak.” Lex held a hand up, preventing the inevitable comment that the archon was not a person. “But, we’re getting off topic.”
“I’m not sure we were ever on one,” Vonn said. Lex scowled at his friend, envious of the rogue’s ability to remain calm under all circumstances. Lex turned back to the archon.
“If I’m understanding this effed up tale of yours, Tal killing Baelmaera freed her from her prison and to prevent her renascence …” He said the word like an asshole freshman composition student, “… Tal forced her into a new prison. His own body.”
“Correct. And it is consuming him from the inside,” Jurredix gazed over at the slumbering Grandmaster. “He is fighting a losing battle against time, and his decision to save your friend only hastens that fate. He is dying, and unlike the Princes, he will not be reborn.”
Lex turned to Errat, floating motionless in the Order Engine’s time-altering field. Guilt wormed through him like a time-lapse video of maggots consuming roadkill. He knew he had to decide; Errat or Tal? One of them would have to die so the other might live. A mishmash of movie scenes flowed through his thoughts. In each, some gruff, confident leader made the hard choice, the right choice for the greater good and then lived with the consequences with a stiff upper lip and a tumbler of bourbon.
Lex had neither of those things. Can I just tap out? Hand the leadership baton to Vonn? I’m not suited to the boss role dammit. I’m the snarky sidekick. Only a bunch of imbeciles would look to me to lead.
A throat clearing noise dragged him from his self-recrimination and he saw the others looking at him with expectant gazes. Without a mirror, Lex could not see the message delivered by his face, but if the other’s expressions were any clue, that message was unlikely to inspire greatness.
“I cannot make that choice,” Lex said in a low voice, his head hanging. “I cannot decide who lives and who dies.” Lex sat on a step leading up to the Order Engine, his back to both Errat and Tal. Vonn sat next to him, hands clasped on his lap, letting Lex wallow in his misery. He looked at the archon. “Why don’t you decide?”
“While I am far superior at calculations than mortals, the Lords of Order long ago realized my kind are incapable of making decisions that consider the emotional impact of a situation. Put simply, I am programmed not to make this decision.”
“Well, this whole thing sucks,” Simon blurted. “At least tell us you guys kept that sweet ass sword?” Simon got into a fencing stance before swinging an imaginary blade in a manner that confirmed the undead teen should never, ever be given a real blade. Was channeling Dirge’s skill only something that happened under battle duress?
“Yes, please tell us that,” Lex said. “I very much want that sword.”
“No,” Jurredix said. “It was destroyed. Tal surmised it did not survive the energies of Baelmaera’s extirpation.”
“Just say death!” Lex blurted, taking his frustrations out on the archon. “Why always with the literary douchebag words?” The archon said nothing, and another silence fell like a heavy blanket of depression and dread.
After several moments Seraphine spoke. “Was it worth it?” Her tone cold, her gaze locked onto the archon. “Did your brash, male stomp, stomp into battle without thinking of the consequences beforehand, get you what you wanted. Did you find us a way home?”
“I make thousands of calculations before I act, so yes I did think. And I have no gender and therefore am not male. And I do not stomp.”
“Answer the damned question,” Seraphine snapped. “Can you get us home?”
“No,” Jurredix said. “Once opened, some doors can never be closed. We cannot return home without letting the Princes escape. And that is…”
“Something I will never allow,” Tal said from behind them. Jurredix moved toward the Grandmaster, but Tal waved him off. “I’m not dead yet my friend, and we have work to do.”
“Grandmaster…” Lex began, unsure of how to thank Tal for choosing to save Errat, unsure he shouldn’t try to talk him out of it.
“You may ease your guilt, Lex. As long as I draw breath, your friend is safe.”
“That choice is illogical,” Jurredix said.
“But it is my choice to make.” He held the archons gaze with steely resolve and eventually the automaton nodded.
Now that’s the face of a leader, Lex thought.
“We have a few hours before we arrive at Harlan’s Watch. I suggest we all get some rest while Jurredix mans the helm.”
*****
The gang followed Jurredix’s directions to a large suite of connected rooms. Despite their exhaustion, nobody retired to their quarters. None of them wished to be alone. Learning you were likely trapped for life in the Realm of Chaos tended to make one clingy. Even Steve the bläärt insisted on staying close, causing Lex to scrunch up his nose at the moldy sock smell wafting from the bläärt.
“Seraphine likes cuddles way more than I do,” Lex told the bläärt. Steve grinned and rolled onto the ground. A moment later he righted himself and ran towards Seraphine.
“No, I do …” Seraphine began, but then Steve hopped onto her lap causing the onetime assassin to flinch. An odd ‘hurrk’ noise pushed past h
er lips and she grabbed her nose with her left hand while struggling to push Steve away from her with the other.
If the small blue man took offense to the rough treatment, he showed no sign. He bounced from one member of their group to another, hugging and cooing. It was only when Vonn caught him with his three-fingered hand in his satchel that Lex suggested the bläärt take a walk away from the others.
With a pout, Steve kicked the ground and left. A moment later a small twinge of guilt hit Lex.
"Maybe we should all give the little fella a break. He’s had a rough time, losing his whole …" Lex wasn’t sure what to call the other bläärts “... guys he used to hang out with. It’s not like he’s a bad guy."
“That little bastard stole my bag,” Seraphine blurted and jumped to her feet.
Lex put a gentle hand on her shoulder, trying to ease her anger. Seraphine scowled and pushed Lex aside. By the time she reached the hallway outside, Steve was gone.
“How?” She wanted to rush after the bläärt, but Lex told her to calm down and get some rest.
“We’ll get it from him later. He’s not going anywhere, and besides, how much trouble can he get into?”
37
Steve stood in the hallway just outside the door, leaning against the wall. The noise of the tall non-bläärts arguing and insulting each other flowed over him. This back-and-forth bickering reminded Steve of something, but he couldn’t quite place what that something was.
It was only when the new Master used the phrase that roughly translated into family in Bläärtinese, that Steve remembered he was the last of his vat mates. He hadn't thought much about their deaths, what with the constant danger, but now that he was alone with his thoughts, a feeling took him.
“Ehh,” Steve sputtered, resentful of the small amount of effort the eulogy had taken.
Bläärts weren’t like other creatures. They were grown in large vats from a noisome fungus slurry. They had no sentiments, no attachments and definitely no desire to cuddle, despite what the new Master suggested. Their only joys in life were smelling and then stealing loots.
This was why most bläärts worked in mines or helped bigger, meaner races hunt treasure. Their keen noses could smell value, whether that value be gold, weapons, food or, as with the last Master, suspect sexual apparatus. Bläärts imprinted on their Masters and inherently understood what that Master valued. Once that imprinting had taken, bläärts would become obsessed with their Master’s objects of desire and stop at nothing to acquire them.
Steve’s ears perked up and his eyes widened in alarm. The only thing a bläärt was more sensitive to than loot, was danger, and the woman who wore the body of a boy had just discovered Steve had taken her bag.
Truth be told, Steve was surprised he’d been able to sneak the bag out. It was as big as him and the loot it contained smelled delicious. He adjusted the strap and began to skip down the hallway towards the distant junction and safety.
Any casual observer would have said Steve’s pace was far too slow to escape, but the bläärt showed no signs of worry. A moment before Seraphine stuck her nose around the corridor, Steve hit his third skip and vanished in a puff of cobalt colored smoke.
He appeared a moment later several dozen feet away in a parallel corridor and his skipping slowed into an off-kilter shamble. With a grunt of irritation, Steve adjusted the bag. He closed his eyes, inhaled and let the smell of loot flow over him.
Wondrous and odd scents flowed to Steve from throughout the ship. He showed some disappointment at the lack of rot, bodily excreta and post-coital odors that had been so prevalent on the previous Master’s ship, but Steve felt their lack was a fair price to pay for no longer being whipped.
It had taken no time for Lex, the new Master, to imprint his needs and desires on Steve. So, when the wondrous smell of truly fantastic loot came to his nose, Steve wanted to cheer. But, he kept quiet in case the body thief was still searching for him. It would be several more minutes before he’d be able to use the bläärt racial ability Skip again, so he walked. The leather slapping pitter-patter of his bare feet became a calming metronome that allowed him to push the world away and concentrate on the loots’ terrific aroma.
Steve walked for many minutes down long crystal corridors, past humming engine rooms and dust-covered storage vaults. Eventually, he came to a bare wall that looked no different to the eye than the hundreds of others Steve had walked past. Most people would have continued with no inkling that fantastic loot lay beyond the wall.
But to a bläärt’s nose, walls were no barrier. Steve bounced up and down with such vigorous joy that an observer would have thought the bläärt’s vibrations foreshadowed an explosion. Steve backed up far enough to give him enough room and began to skip towards the wall. He skipped once, twice and as his foot came down a third time, he activated Skip.
Steve disappeared in a puff of smoke expecting to dematerialize beyond the wall, but just as his immaterial body should have passed between the molecules in the wall he returned to solidity and bounced off some unseen barrier.
The impact tossed him head over heels and he landed in a heap, face-planted the floor with his feet flopped over his shoulders. His kilt drifted over his head like a blanket being draped over a sleeping child, exposing Steve’s non-existent nether region.
Had the Master been present, he would be relieved and then confused by the bläärt’s lack of bits. Steve knew he should explain to the Master how to make bläärts in case the Master wanted more, but he did not want to, for he very much enjoyed being the Master’s sole bläärt.
Steve shook his head, writing off his odd jealousy as a side effect of the skull cracking impact. He walked to the wall and put a tentative hand against its smooth surface. The crystal vibrated at a higher rate than the other nearby walls, suggesting that some kind of energy field flowed within.
Now understands why Skip no go, Steve thought to himself as he scratched his chin in near perfect imitation of the Master. But loot still can smell very good. Must means other ways in. Steve’s nostrils flared, inhaling the loot smell's trail.
He rushed around the corner and sniffed until he discovered a maintenance closet. Inside the closet, a small, grate covered shaft oozed with loot smell. Steve stacked several boxes tall enough for him to reach the air shaft. He removed the grate and climbed in. He wriggled through the shaft until he peered through another grate and into a small room. The room was empty except for a long, thin chest made of metal girded crystal. Wondrous loot smells wafted up from the chest and Steve sputtered in glee.
The Master will say much good congratulations and thanks to Steve once Steve has loots Master wants.
Steve opened the grate and eased himself over the edge. He stretched as far as he was able, grumbling on realizing he still dangled a half dozen feet above the floor. Steve considered pulling himself back up and waiting until Skip’s countdown expired, but he was far too excited to acquire the loot and show it to the new Master.
Master no want wait.
Girding himself for pain, Steve let go of the lip of the shaft and fell. His feet caught the edge of the chest, spinning him so he face planted the crystal floor with a wet thwack. He moaned in pain and spat out a gobbet of blue ichor. One of his few remaining teeth skittered into the blood and Steve groaned in irritation.
He stood, stretched his back through several cracks and fished the tooth from the pool of goop. He examined the crooked brown incisor and pushed it into a gap in the top row of teeth, either failing to notice, or not caring, that the tooth had been in his lower jaw mere moments before.
Satisfied with his amateur dentistry, Steve turned to the chest. It was over six feet long, but only about a foot deep and less than that high. It was made from a thick, milky colored crystal which prevented him from seeing inside. But Steve did not need to see inside. He could smell the loot and licked his lips salaciously.
There were no obvious hinges but Steve spotted a small keyhole hidden amidst the wheels of
decorative metal. He fished his locksmithing kit from beneath his kilt and got to work. Within moments a dull click announced success and with a heaving effort, Steve pushed the heavy lid up.
Upon a bed of thick velvet was a long black sword. A cascade of red-orange motes danced across the surface of the blade and a resonant hum buzzed the air. Steve’s mouth widened in joy. In all his many years of loot gathering, this sword was the greatest thing he’d ever smelled.
He wrapped both hands around the hilt, surprised at its warmth. He bent at the knees and lifted with all of his might, heaving the sword above his head, but the length and weight of the blade were far too much for Steve to support and it slowly, inexorably dragged him backward. Steve fell onto his backside and the sword clattered to the floor with a metallic clang. Struggling, he pushed the heavy sword off of him and stood.
“Hmmmm, how am Steve get long pokey to Master?” Steve asked, bringing his hand to his chin once more. His face screwed up as he thought, but no ingenious method of carrying the blade jumped to mind. With no other options, Steve dragged the blade, hoping the raucous sound of the metal against crystal wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.
He reached the opposite wall to find there was no door.
“Awww,” Steve whined. “Hates when dumb dumbs lock loots up.” He stared for several moments, tapping his fingers idly on the clasp of the pilfered bag. The dull clink of his fingernail on metal eventually reached the part of his brain responsible for ‘ah ha’ moments.
“Ah, ha.” Steve opened the bag and dug around. It was chock full of potions, a scroll and a bunch of eye stalks the body thief had carved from the floating death eyeball. He picked them up one at a time and sniffed, like a man admiring a fine Cuban cigar.
Though an outsider would suspect Steve had some olfactory fetish, he was, in fact, activating his Smellify talent. It was a bläärt specific ability that allowed the small blue men to Identify the traits of nearly any item by smell alone.