The Master

by Louise Cooper

  ‘You seem to have forgotten, My Lord of Life and Death, that you and your six brethren each has one who shadows him in the realm of Chaos.’ His gaze slowly raked the six shimmering figures ranged at Aeoris’s back. ‘Which of these great princes, I wonder, calls himself the master of Time? I would be most interested to meet my own pale twin.’

  Aeoris’s hot golden eyes blazed ferociously. ‘You dare to mock the gods who granted you your miserable life - ‘

  ‘The gods of Order granted me nothing!’ Tarod interrupted, his voice searing. There is another lord of Life and Death, Aeoris; another who now comes to challenge you. And it is to him that I owe my allegiance.’ He raised his head again, staring through the dark to the threatening, pulsing white star overhead. Then he smiled, and gently spoke a single word. The word was an acceptance and a summoning together, and it broke the strands of the web that had, for centuries, held two worlds apart.

  ‘Yandros.’

  For a time that no mortal observer would have dared to judge there was silence; the stifled, oppressive silence that afflicts the elements in the moments before the breaking of a storm. Then maleficent laughter showered down into the crater, skimming around the rock faces to echo insidiously across the bowl. The empty space at Tarod’s left side seemed, momentarily, to become an utter vacuum; he turned his head - and the gaunt figure of Yandros stood where the emptiness had been.

  The great Lord of Chaos had taken human form. Gold hair, wild and unkempt, rippled over his shoulders; the colour of his eyes changed and changed again, and his perfect features were made harsh and preternatural by the shivering rainbow of his own aura.

  My brother of Time. You have learned - and you are whole again. A surge of kinship, amusement, affection, shared knowledge, accompanied the silent thought, and this time Tarod welcomed it, and the sense of triumph that suffused through him. He smiled in exquisite understanding. ‘I am whole, Yandros. And returned to my rightful place.’

  Yandros looked at the rigidly motionless Aeoris, and touched the tip of his tongue to his lips like a predator contemplating its prey. ‘And you … Greetings, old friend,’ he said softly. ‘It is a long time since we last met.’

  Aeoris’s brows met in a savage frown. ‘And it will be long before we meet again, demon; for I will send you to a place from which you may never return!’

  Yandros smiled. ‘Perhaps. But if you would reckon with me, Aeoris, you must also reckon with my kinsmen.’ He raised one hand in a calm gesture. ‘With Chaos that is Fire.’

  A sound like a heavy door slamming shattered the deep, throbbing rhythm which still beat far underground. To Yandros’s left another figure appeared; an image of pride, disdain, incredible venom. Again, Yandros smiled.

  ‘With Chaos that is Water.’

  A hiss this time, like a death-rattle. The fourth dark lord lurked against the far wall of the crater. His hair was the colour of rotting weed, his eyes insane; he made no move.

  ‘With Chaos that is Air.’

  The rock floor shifted again. Something rose from a fissure which moments ago had not existed; white-haired, face like a bird of prey.

  ‘With Chaos that is Earth.’

  Another, disturbingly akin to Yandros, his calm, peaceable smile deceiving no one.

  ‘Chaos that is Space.’

  And the seventh … a dull noise like a single, dead drumbeat blotted out all other sound for an instant, and when Tarod turned his head he saw, on a ledge where the chasm mouth opened to the crater, a shadow, darker than any blackness, etched into the rock.

  Yandros clasped his hands together, steepling his fingers and contemplating them. ‘Life and Death,’ he said. ‘Fire and Water and Air and Earth and Space.’ He looked obliquely at Tarod. ‘And Time.’ Then his gaze flicked back to his adversary, and now it was venomous.

  ‘Challenge us, old friend - or be damned!’

  While the Lords of Chaos took form, matching their counterparts and enemies, Aeoris had stood motionless, gazing down at the veined rock beneath his feet. But at Yandros’s taunt he raised his head, and his eyes burned with a power that could shatter Suns.

  ‘I pity you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I pity your pride and your arrogance that compels you to stand against the rightful rule of Order. Will you not accept the supremacy of my reign and concede to me now? For if you do, I might be moved to show mercy to those unfortunate mortals who have been duped by your false promises.’

  Yandros laughed, and the laughter fell like poison, melting rock where he stood. ‘Order does not change, order cannot change. My brothers, our ancient adversary stands before us and pleads reason. What does Chaos know of reason?’

  Mirth shivered the crater; a vast sliver of stone detached itself from high in the cone and crashed to smithereens at Yandros’s back. He glanced at the shards; they disintegrated and became dust. Then he smiled at Tarod.

  ‘It is time,’ he said.

  Cyllan didn’t know if anyone else was still conscious.

  She had watched the manifestation of the six Chaos Lords with a numbness that inured her to the worst shock: after such an experience, nothing could appal her now. But she heard the first rumbling of thunder in the distance, the herald of a storm moving in towards the island, and then in its wake a high, thin screaming that turned her blood to water.

  A Warp … Chaos made manifest… Bile rose in her throat and she choked it back. Above the Warp’s faraway howl another sound was rising, clashing with and countering the storm’s terrible voice. A single note, pure and piercing, its harmonics vibrating in incredible accord as the Lords of Order summoned their power to meet the challenge of Chaos. She felt the ground beneath her shake with the onslaught of forces it could barely contain. And in the midst of the warring cacophony, she heard a voice - molten silver, fearsome with malignance - cry above the mayhem:

  ‘NOW! WE SHALL DESTROY THEM!’

  His form was a star and his dimensions spanned a universe. Screaming with the power that blasted from the furnace within him he turned and wheeled, hurling vast bolts of molten crimson at the stabbing, spearing comets of light which surged out of the blackness to maim him.

  Beside him a star exploded in a furious inferno; crimson through yellow through white through blue, tentacles hurtling across the void to snare the white comet-blades as they seared at its heart. Beneath him black emptiness gaped to swallow the singing, deadly bolts; iridescent fire splashed against the black and it twisted, whimpering, in on itself.

  A new Sun erupted into life no more than a handspan beyond the reach of his arm. Golden, blazing, Order incarnate, it burned steadily, eating the darkness around it. He howled a command, and black, formless creations of pandemonium zigzagged and gyrated from nowhere to attack and devour the gold brilliance. The Sun flickered, faltered, gathered its failing strength for a last defiant surge; died. Voices shrieked in triumph, were drowned by a pure bolt of energy; something came at his back and he turned, flinging red lightning at its core, shattering, destroying. Chaos rampaged out of infinity to tear at the struggling remains of his broken enemy and he laughed, the laughter ricocheting from vast, invisible walls. This battle was older than form, older than time; in victory or in defeat it had never been resolved, but the joy of the primeval conflict was enough. He glimpsed faces twisted in malice or triumph or pain or all three together; sound dinned and howled beyond the threshold of bearing, hands clenched and clawed, and all the memories, the experiences, the knowledge and the understanding of the oldest conflict of all were fresh blood in his veins, new adrenalin, a power that could never be crushed but which would live, however battered and however bruised, to fight again and again.

  Gold light blazed before him but it no longer had the power to dazzle; and the laughter which greeted every victory was merging into an endless, shrieking cacophony of sound. He felt other presences touching and merging with his being, sensed the proximity of the greatest of his brethren and the satisfaction that burned at that being’s heart.

  They are fa
lling back … they are defeated … We have won, my brother of Chaos; we have won!

  He heard the wailing cry of bitter defeat, felt a backlash from the sting of shame as his ancient adversaries drew away, their light shining sullenly now, a poor mockery of its old glory. He joined with his brother-Lords to form the implacable dark that drove them back, twisted and broke their hold, compressed and compacted them within a pulsing ring of power through which they no longer had the strength to break. The sky darkened through purple to black … it was done …

  Images flickered like half-forgotten dreams across his consciousness, and at first he couldn’t assimilate them or their significance. Bare rock; twisted forms that cowered and cried and prayed; a shattered altar - Laughter rang in his mind as his brethren poised themselves for the final blow -

  ‘NO!!’

  His voice rang across dimensions, shattered the link between the seven Lords of Chaos, and he felt their shock as he hurled the full power of his will against their intent. The two forces collided, and a titanic upheaval snatched him and smashed him with the force of a hammerblow back to the mortal world he had left behind.

  He felt the sudden, violent constrictions of flesh, blood and bone as his consciousness exploded back into human form; felt his body twist and wrench, rock flowing beneath him, towering walls falling out of the sky.

  Above and around him he heard the insensate screaming of the Warp, and in his mind the sound swelled and spread until other voices - myriad voices, but human this time - joined the cacophony. It was as though his being encompassed the entire world. Oceans raged in his arteries and the roar of monstrous tides, whipped to frenzy by the warring powers of Chaos and Order, was the pounding of his own pulse. Mountains shook and cracked in his bones, opening mile-wide fissures that seared across the land and engulfed all in their path; he saw villages crushed and obliterated by massive walls of moving rock. Storm-gales that were his breath rampaged beyond control, smashing forests, destroying crops, leaving devastation in their wake. And above the pandemonium still came that vast throng of massed human voices, a ceaseless wailing that seared him and tore at him and racked him with its terror and its pain; a damned and desperate cry for salvation.

  Man, demon and god met and merged in Tarod’s mind, and in the crater-bowl he fell sprawling to his knees as the raw, unleashed power threatened to overwhelm him. He had to stop it-he had to control it, pull it back, or it would destroy the world - He gathered his will and felt the unchained forces fight back. Sternly, though knowing he was at the limits of his endurance, he commanded the raging seas, the quaking earth, the thundering storms; taking their fury upon himself, drawing it back, drawing it inward, holding it, calming it -

  He couldn’t do it! The power was too vast and he couldn’t contain it, couldn’t overcome the pain and the destruction that beat against him like a ceaseless tidal wave. Alone, he hadn’t the strength; it would destroy him. There was but one hope.

  He cried out across the world, across dimensions, seeking his kin. ‘Yandros, this must not be! Help me - help me!’

  In his mind the seven-rayed star blazed out of darkness and he felt the presence of his brothers. Their minds joined with his; slowly, slowly, the madness of the elements began to lessen, calming. The rushing in his blood slowed, the mountains ceased to shake; the crying, pleading voices were quieting at last - all fading, fading -

  Above the bowl of the ancient crater the Warp howled once and flashed out of existence - and Tarod’s consciousness was slammed back into his mortal, physical form. His mind reeled with shock and he fought for breath; hardly aware of what he was doing, stunned by the terrible contradiction between his true self and the mortal memories that assailed him, he staggered to his feet and at last was able to open his eyes.

  The crater was a wrecked wasteland. Huge slabs of rock had been torn from the walls and hurled down to shatter on the floor of the bowl; great fissures had ripped through the mountain cone; the volcano’s North face had split, and gaped to the indifferent sky like the open mouth of a corpse. Aeoris and his brethren were gone.

  Yandros and his own kin were nowhere to be seen. The only witnesses to his return were a small group of fallible and pitifully human figures who had somehow survived the insanity and now crouched in the scant shelter of the smashed altar-stone. One by one they raised their heads to stare fixedly at him, like cattle sensing, though not truly comprehending, that the hour for their slaughter had come.

  Yet there was one, just one, not bound by such mindless fear. Tarod’s emerald eyes raked the gathering and saw her. She got to her feet, unsteady but determined, and her amber gaze met his, seeking the humanity she had known behind the image of Chaos. What she saw, he couldn’t tell; but in her face was a pain and a love that snatched him back to the humanity he had abandoned.

  She said, her voice shaking, Tarod … ?’

  He couldn’t bring himself to speak her name; memories hurt him like a knife-thrust. Instead he took a step towards her, knowing all the while that he dared not touch her, that the gulf between them was immeasurable. At last he said, with the voice she knew, ‘We are victorious. Order is defeated … ‘ He wondered why the triumph meant nothing to him.

  ‘Oh, Tarod … ‘ Understanding broke her composure, but despite what she knew she couldn’t stop herself from stumbling forward, towards him, her hands reaching out as though in supplication.

  Behind her, someone moved. Tarod didn’t react immediately; he was too intent on Cyllan and her unspoken grief. Only when red-brown hair flickered in the cold light from above, and a figure interposed itself between himself and Cyllan, did he realise what was afoot - and by then it was too late to intervene.

  Sashka was screaming; formless, wordless obscenities that spilled from her throat and lips as though she were possessed by the ultimate corruption. Cyllan started, swung round, tried to defend herself, but the knife in the other girl’s hand was already shearing down. Where Sashka had found the blade Tarod couldn’t begin to guess, and it was irrelevant - she had it, and the jealous, thwarted fury that possessed her was warped out of all proportion by terror and a mindless lust for revenge.

  Cyllan yelled as the blade came glittering at her unprotected body, a drover’s oath that flung Tarod back in confusion to other, lost days - then the knife sliced her upraised arm, drawing a fountaining first sacrifice of blood, before the blade bit deeply, greedily through her flesh and into her heart.

  She didn’t cry out again. Instead, she dropped her wounded arm to clutch at her breast, fingers locking round the hilt of the dagger protruding obscenely from her ribs. Her coarse shirt flowered brilliant crimson and she sagged to her knees, coughing, eyes filmed with shock. For a moment her amber gaze locked with Tarod’s in what seemed a last, desperate plea. Then blacker blood vomited from her throat, cascading over her chin, and she keeled sideways to sprawl on the hard rock floor, and her eyes stared at nothing.

  There was utter silence. Tarod stood rigid, staring at Cyllan’s corpse, his face utterly without expression.

  Sashka began to back away, her mouth working in a spasmodic, rictus grin of shocked pleasure. The others stared like hypnotised sheep … until Keridil broke the spell.

  He got to his feet, moving like an old, crippled man, and stumbled one, two paces forward. At first it seemed he would turn towards Sashka, and Tarod felt his whole body begin to shake with an emotion he couldn’t contain. But then Keridil stopped, looked down, moved again. He dropped to his knees beside Cyllan and covered his face with both hands. The small part of Tarod’s being which had retained its humanity realised that the High Initiate was crying.

  Green eyes, fathomless and filled with a savage light, lifted their gaze from Cyllan’s huddled body to the girl who stood, shivering with an ugly blend of fear and defiant triumph, not seven paces away. Sashka met Tarod’s stare; for a moment only her defiance held, then it was replaced by a look of horror.

  ‘No … ‘ Her lips formed the word, but whether it was plea o
r exhortation Tarod neither knew nor cared.

  He took a step towards her; her eyes widened.

  ‘Keridil … ‘ She stumbled backwards, one hand flailing, groping towards the High Initiate. ‘Keridil, help me … ‘ Her fingers found his shoulder and Tarod saw him flinch violently at the touch.

  ‘Keridil!’ Sashka shrieked, and spittle flecked her lips.

  ‘Stop him - you’ve got to stop him! Help me, damn you - do something!’

  Keridil stared at her and his eyes were utterly blank.

  She was gasping incoherently, terrified now, but he made no move to aid her. Instead he shook his head, incoherent, incapable of communicating what he felt.

  Then, with a shudder that racked his entire body, he pulled himself out of her reach and turned away.

  ‘Keridil … ‘ This time Sashka’s voice was barely more than a whisper; she was too petrified to move.

  Tarod’s left hand started to rise, slowly, steadily, fingers forming a symbol; with the gesture came a resurgence of the power that had crushed gods, fuelled by a loathing that transcended all human limitations. He raised the hand, outstretched his arm, spoke a single word in a tongue never uttered by a human throat.

  Sashka began to moan. She moaned as her cascade of rich, red-brown hair shrivelled as though consumed by invisible flames and fell in shredded clumps from her scalp. Her hands came up, snatching at her skull; Tarod smiled a savage smile of pleasure, and the skin and flesh of her hands lost their form and began to melt repellently into her wrists, leaving bones stark and white in their place. She touched her own face and screamed; this time there was no challenge but only naked, animal panic. Tarod whispered another word and her face began to disintegrate, layer after layer of skin peeling back to reveal raw, crimson flesh beneath; sinew and muscle and vein exposed to the stricken gaze of the company. Someone gagged, vomited; Tarod smiled. As the girl dropped to her knees, he caught hold of her mind, twisted it, drew from its struggling tendrils the full knowledge of what was happening to the beauty and power which she had wielded as a weapon for so long.