by Tad Williams
“What? Are you saying you lied?” The autarch’s voice, instead of growing shriller, suddenly took on a tone at once silky and dangerous. “That the promises you sent to me through the great Seeing Glass of the Khau-r-Yisti were meaningless?” The autarch turned as if to address his soldiers, although most of them were cowering facedown on the stony ground, or had retreated to the farther reaches of the island. Only the autarch’s household guards, some two dozen of the formidable Leopards, remained on the stand with him and the priests and the prisoners. “Do you think I would not be prepared for such tricks from one of those who have already been banished from the earth once for their treachery?” the autarch demanded. “I will force you in ways you will not like, Death God.”
The face of Olin, its glow like the sickly shine of a mushroom in dark earth, curled its lips in a ghastly approximation of a smile. “Tell me of these ways, little emperor. Or better, show me.”
“A’lat!” the autarch called. “A’lat! Bring the book!”
A small, dark-haired figure, wizened and as bent as an ape, limped quickly forward from the back of the platform, holding a brown, tattered scroll in its knobby fist. It lifted the scroll and began to read the words written there. The Fireflower voices heard the words and shouted their meaning into his aching head.
“Xergal, I name you and bind you!
Kernios, I name you and bind you!
Earthlord, I name you and bind you!
You cannot die but I steal your joy!
You cannot die but I set black ants upon you to bite you!
You cannot die but I set pebbles beneath your skin to itch you!
You cannot die but the wind will blow and disperse your thoughts!
The dogs will bark at your window!
Sleep will never soothe you!
Your bed will be as restless and lonely as a grave without offerings ...”
As the desert priest intoned the words the wood of the platform began to sway and creak, as though some great weight had been set down upon it. Even the rocks of the cavern wall seemed to rumble in discomfort, shaking Barrick to his core. Beside him, Ferras Vansen began to stir to life, though Qinnitan remained as still as death.
But the thing that had been King Olin, the waxy, gleaming thing that was no longer anything like a man except in form, only listened, motionless and unperturbed.
“Deathlord, by your secret names I punish you!
Master of Worms!
Empty Box!
Iron Gloves!
By your secret names I curse you! You cannot do harm to me in turn!
Burned Foot!
Silver Beak!
King of the Red Windows!
Master and Slave of the Great Knot!
You have disobeyed my lawful summons.
Your heart is mine! Your happiness is mine!”
The priest finished in a howl of imprecations, but when he fell silent. the god still stood, unmoved, his essence burning deep inside Olin’s waxy flesh.
“Did you truly think I would let you thwart me, after all I have done?” the autarch cried, his anger too great to let him show fear. “You are trapped, Kernios, trapped in that mortal body! Because as I name you, so I command you—and I know all your names, Skull Eater! And if I choose to destroy that vessel, it may be that you die, too—a true death that can come even to gods!”
“You know so little.” The god spread its arms wider. The air grew tighter all through the cavern, making Barrick’s ears ache. On the ground beside him, Vansen groaned and grabbed at his head. “True, you have named a name . . . but it is not mine.”
“Kill it!” the autarch cried. All around, the Leopards came scrambling forward. “Grab this thing and cast it into the fire—burn it like a candle . . . !”
“No.” The god extended its hand, and the soldiers fell down clutching their chests as if they had been pierced by arrows, rifles and helmets clattering from their hands. “You know so little. I am not here, in this pathetic skin. Even with your ceremony, only a token part of my being can pass through to inhabit this twice-usurped king. The rest of me remains trapped in the dreaming lands, where Crooked banished me . . . but now Crooked is dead.”
“But you are my slave, Xergal or Kernios or whatever name you choose, Deathgod!” the autarch shrieked. “Nothing you say or do can change that. I have spoken the words of power. I have prepared the way. You have come through and accepted what I set out for you—this mortal vessel with its ancient, holy blood! Now you are mine, curse you, mine!”
The god laughed again. It still sounded something like music, but a music that scraped and grated in Barrick’s skull until he thought he might fall back to the ground, screaming.
“Fool,” said the thing in Olin’s body. “You cannot tame me because you cannot name me. Now look to the foot of the Shining Man and you will see the rest of the answer to my riddle.”
Barrick turned with everyone else. In such a dim place, it was likely he was the only person in the great chamber who recognized the small, portly figure shuffling across the stony island toward the monstrous outcrop. It was the physician, Chaven Makaros, with the stone statue of Kernios clutched in his hand and an expression on his blinking face like something caught in the light when it would have preferred darkness.
“Who is that?” demanded Sulepis, losing control again. “Who is that walking there . . . ?”
“It is my slave,” said the thing that wore Olin. “Do you see what he carries? That is the Godstone, as you call it—the thing you sought in vain. It is the last piece of the Shining Man, and it broke free long ago when Crooked sealed the way with his own life’s essence. Ignorant humans made a fetish of it, a statue ...”
“Kill him!” the autarch shouted suddenly. “Archers! Kill that creature!”
Before Barrick could even take a breath, let alone try to struggle loose from his captors, a humming cloud of arrows flew toward Chaven a hundred paces away; but although the darts seemed to fly right at him, they landed in a great spatter of loose stones without even touching him. The autarch bellowed in rage and had them fire again, but these, too, could not seem to find Chaven.
“You cannot strike him!” The face of the possessed king looked bloated and inhuman, as if something pressed out from behind the skin. Barrick had seen something like it once, when a drowned man had been fished out of the East Lagoon, swollen into something far more grotesque than any mere dead body. “I have misdirected the eyes of your soldiers!”
“I am sorry, Father,” Barrick whispered. “Sorry, sorry ...”
Untouched by arrows, Chaven seemed nevertheless for the first time to be aware of what was around him. He slowed his already plodding pace, then stopped and turned to look back at the autarch’s platform.
“Where . . . ?” He turned slowly from side to side but didn’t seem to recognize anything he saw. “Why am I here?”
“You are where you should be, good and faithful servant,” said the god shining out through Olin’s skin. “Take the Godstone to the Shining Man. Let them be joined again, so that the doorway is completed after all these centuries. ...”
“But . . . but why does it hurt so? You promised me bliss . . . !”
“And bliss you shall have. Only complete the doorway.”
Barrick didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that the physician was being used somehow as a helpless catspaw and that neither of the monsters that stood on the platform, mortal or immortal, could be allowed to triumph. “Stop!” He struggled until the strangler’s wire cut deep into his throat. “Chaven, don’t do it! You are being tricked . . . !”
Something hard struck him—the butt of a Leopard guard’s gun—and Barrick felt his legs turn limp so that he would have fallen but for the metal noose. A red haze washed over his sight. The physician turned as if he had not heard him and continued across the rocky island toward the huge base of the Shining Man, which had begun to glimmer and pulse.
“Hurry!” screeched the autarch. “Sto
p him!”
Guards tumbled down the steps of the platform to pursue Chaven, but as their feet touched the stones, they began to waver and stumble like drunken men, then straggled off in all directions as though struck blind.
“Their wits are broken,” crowed the god in Olin’s body. “They will never find him. And once the Godstone has rejoined the rest of the Shining Man, you will see what you have truly done, little mortal king!” It loosed the terrible music of its laughter again. “Self-important mortals—do you even know what the Shining Man is? It is not a god, but the shadow of a god’s last moment on this earth. It is the mark left on the world from the moment wounded, dying Crooked used his own essence to close the door between this world and the worlds beyond the void. But now Crooked is finally dead, and as soon as the Shining Man is whole once more, the essence he left behind will vanish, too ...!”
“Why do you do this to me?” Sulepis screamed. The autarch leaped at the god’s throat but pulled back his hands with an outraged squeal of pain, waggling them as if they had been burned. “Beast! Liar! Why do you thwart me?”
“Because you are a presumptuous fool!” The spirit in Olin was laughing again. “You planned for years—I prepared a hundred times longer! You thought to prison me in a body but did not bother to secure the Godstone, and without it, you have no power over me!” Colors were now running up and down through the Shining Man as Chaven drew nearer to it, milky blues and streaks of dark but radiant purple, even little flashes of red flickering just beneath the surface like summer lightning, as though the great, man-shaped stone were stirring into life.
The strangler finally let Barrick drop to his knees. He gasped in air once more, and the red tide before his eyes began to recede.
Then a new figure stepped into view from a crevice near the foot of the massive Shining Man as though it had been waiting there all along, a strange man Barrick had never seen before, ragged and bearded like a desert oracle. Chaven himself was so deeply in the grip of compulsion that he did not even see the newcomer, but it did not matter—the newcomer saw him very well. The stranger stepped out in front of Chaven, and for a moment they both halted, staring at each other. Then the bearded apparition lifted a piece of very ordinary stone and smashed it down on the physician’s head. Chaven slumped to the ground still clutching the Godstone, but the stranger only bent over and continued hitting him with the rock, over and over again until even in the midst of so many horrors Barrick had to turn away. When he turned back, the stranger was standing over the physician’s body in triumph, the Godstone now clutched in his bloody hands.
“By all my ancestors,” the autarch said in astonishment, “ . . . that is Daikonas Vo!”
“Noooooo!” Now it was the turn of the thing in Olin’s body to sound astonished and dismayed, its voice suddenly barely human as it bellowed and hissed. “It cannot ...! No! It is not written ...!”
The bearded man lifted the gleaming statue over his head and began to stagger back toward the autarch’s platform like the winner of some village festival carrying his prize. The guards the autarch had dispatched to stop Chaven were still wandering like madmen and did not even seem to see him. “Vo!” the autarch cried, his voice throbbing with relief and joy. “Daikonas Vo, my wonderful soldier! You shall have a thousand gifts for this! Gold, virgins, spices—anything you name!”
The one called Vo stopped, then lowered the thing in his hands and squinted at it as though he had only just realized he carried a heavy stone statue. He raised his dull gaze to Sulepis himself.
The thing in Olin’s body squirmed in frustration and rage. “Do not give it to him!” it cried. “Why will you not do my bidding?”
Vo looked at the god curiously, but then turned and spoke to the autarch. “You put a thing inside me, Golden One. It is killing me.” Vo looked down at his belly. “No, that is a lie. It has already killed me. I can feel it.”
“No, that is not true!” The autarch waved his hands in a fretful way that made him for the first time look like the young man he was. “A’lat, come and tell him.” He beckoned to the desert priest. “Tell him! Tell my good soldier that we can make him right again. We will cure you, Captain Vo. You have nothing to fear. You will rise high in my service—none will be higher! Do you wish to be master of all this northern land? My viceroy? Nothing easier! Where is Pinimmon Vash? Tell him to bring out the Bishakh charter and I will make it so. Vash? Burning Nushash curse that old stick, where has he gone . . . ?”
Vo staggered a little, and now Barrick could clearly see that the man could barely stand. “And the girl from the Hive . . . ?”
“Of course,” said the autarch. “The girl. Do you want her for yourself? You shall have her, to do with as you wish. She is yours—she is no use to me now, in any case . . . !”
Daikonas Vo took a few more steps toward the men, lowering the statue as though it grew heavier by the moment. Some of the Xixian soldiers still on the platform had their arrows nocked, waiting for a command from the autarch to kill him.
“You did not need her,” Vo said, so quietly it was hard to hear him.
“What?” The autarch’s ears were clearly not as sharp as Barrick’s. “What did he say? Do you want more, Vo? Name it!”
“You did not even need her.” The bearded man spoke so softly that nearly everyone on the island fell silent to hear him. “You put a demon in my gut to make me deliver the girl to you . . . and you did not even need her for your little mummers’ show.” He sagged at the waist and the knees, bending until Barrick was certain he was about to collapse. Then he slowly straightened. “And now you want this, too,” Vo murmured.
“Leopards . . . !” said the autarch quietly, but his voice was far from calm. “Be ready ...”
“But you shall not have it.” Daikonas Vo turned sharply and heaved the statue back toward the Shining Man as hard as he could. As the autarch and the others watched in gape-mouthed astonishment, it spun through the air toward the suddenly darkened Shining Man; then, as the statue vanished into the rock’s great black shadow, the entire stone mass erupted in blinding light. The Xixian soldiers closest to it stumbled back, clutching their eyes, weeping and shrieking, but the autarch let out only a single, agonized shout of despair.
Even as the dazzling glare spread, the cavern began to shiver as if something gigantic had picked it up and begun to shake it. The platform pitched, and those still standing there fought to keep their balance. The blaze that was the Shining Man grew brighter still until its harsh glare had driven away everything else, until it seemed as though the sun itself had been kindled in the great cave.
The Fireflower voices filled Barrick’s head.
“Crooked is gone!”
“Woe! The way has finally been opened! Woe to all the earth!”
“The gods will be free again!”
The streaming white light suddenly faded to something duller, a swirl of violet and indigo like a bruise on the air, then even that began to die. The shaking of the cavern became less. For a moment only a tattered black hole remained in the air where the Shining Man had stood, then the body of Barrick’s father fell to the ground beside him with a noise like a sack of wet meal. The hole in the air at the center of the island filled with hot, red light, then something stepped through it, bigger than a man and growing every moment, a banked white fire in the shape of a beautiful youth who wore rippling flames as a cloak.
“I MUST NOW DECLINE YOUR GIFT OF A MORTAL BODY,” the god announced, towering over all their heads now and still growing. His voice was so sweet that Barrick wanted to impale himself on it and die pierced by its music. “FOR AS YOU CAN SEE, I CAN NOW CREATE MY OWN. ...”
“No! You are mine, Deathgod!” shrieked the autarch.
The youth laughed, his hair floating around his head in tufts of pale flame. “I TOLD YOU THAT IF YOU COULD NOT NAME ME, YOU COULD NOT TAME ME. I AM NOT KERNIOS, WHO STILL SLUMBERS WITH THE REST OF THE GODS, ALTHOUGH PERHAPS ONE DAY I WILL WAKE MY FATHER TO SERVE ME WITH THE REST
OF THE COURT. NO, YOU FOOLISH MORTAL! YOU TRIED TO ENSLAVE A GOD, BUT IT IS YOU WHO HAVE BEEN COZEND BY ME—THE TRICKSTER, AS THE MEWLING QAR NAMED ME. NOW ZOSIM SALA-MANDROS IS FREE! AND YOUR MORTAL ARMIES AND YOUR IDIOT CURSES AND SPELLS MEAN NOTHING TO ME!”
I have met this thing before, in a dream in the city of Sleep, thought Barrick, despairing. “Can you kill the darkness?” it taunted me. “Can you destroy the solid earth or murder f lame . . . ?” And it’s right. Now that Crooked is dead and the way is open, we can’t stop it . . . !
“COME TO ME NOW, LITTLE SOLDIER!” Zosim thundered. He snatched up Daikonas Vo, the man who had freed him, and lifted him high into the air. “YOU HAVE SERVED ME WELL—SO I GIVE YOU A GIFT! YOU WILL BECOME PART OF A GOD!” He threw Vo into his flaming maw and crunched him up like a roasted chestnut. “BE PROUD!” Zosim laughed, belching out a cloud of fiery amusement. “NOW YOU ARE IMMORTAL!”
The monstrous figure grew, and the air burned hotter and hotter; men screamed and burst into flame even as they tried to flee him. Now a handsome youth as tall as a temple minaret, the god of poetry and deceit stared down at their helpless struggles and laughed until the very stones of the cavern trembled.
41
Snakes and Spiders
“Many devout people came to Tessideme to see the place where the sun had been returned to the sky, and also to bring an offering to the grave of the Orphan. So many came that, as the years passed Tessideme grew from a small place to a city of high walls, where many people lived, and they called it Tessis.”
—from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”
THE THING THAT HAD BEEN following him drew closer, and for the first time Beetledown could see it clearly when he turned. It was a gray devil owl, a huge bird with eyes that shone as brightly as lamps even in the near darkness.
Devil owls were night-sky hunters—he had never heard of one so far beneath the ground—but it was foolish to waste time wondering why it was here. The silent predator was right behind him, nimbly matching every swerve that Muckle Brown made and never falling behind more than a short distance. Beetledown could feel the bat laboring as she tried to stay ahead of the monstrous bird, but the owl seemed to glide almost without effort. Three times now it had come close enough to climb above Beetledown’s head, ready to drop and strike. Only Muckle Brown’s last-moment spins out from beneath it had saved him, and he was less than halfway back to the place Chert had told him to go. Owls could hunt in total darkness if they were familiar with the territory, and with their silent wings and keen hearing, they didn’t need much light even in a strange place. Long before he reached his goal, the hunting bird would catch them in its sharp talons, and then both he and the flittermouse would be torn to pieces by that great, curved beak.