Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. When you told me about how you felt, I was worried for you. I don’t like the thought of you living your life in such pain.”

  “Pain?” I echoed, surprised. “There’s no pain involved. That’s simply the way I exist. It’s how I think, or part of it. It’s just me. A more deep-down me than most people will ever see, in fact. Is that a problem?”

  “No. I’ve given this some thought, and it explains a lot about you—things I didn’t quite understand. I don’t think it changes how I look at you, how I feel about you… or not much. Maybe there’s a little… I don’t know. Pity, maybe. Sadness. You’re not only a dark hero, you’re also a tragic figure.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Being a tragic figure? I find it incredibly attractive. I’d like you to be happy in the way I understand happy, but if you’re content with being a tragic figure, I’m totally on board.”

  “Good? I think?”

  “Finish your breakfast. You’re going to need your strength.”

  “Oh, so it’s that kind of attractive.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Mary let me escape her seductive clutches. I’m not sure how that works. She’s the one who likes to be tied up. Apparently, I have a lot to learn when it comes to dealing with women.

  I checked in with Diogenes. The fleet was still making for the Dragon’s Teeth—the weather wasn’t cooperating, but that’s a sailing thing and not my speed. I could either chew my fingernails down to the wrists, or find distractions to keep me occupied. Bob wasn’t the most delightful of my options, but he was on my list of people to see. I debated whether to call Bob or drop in. Each had good points. I finally settled on calling him. The idea of being able to hang up and go about my business seemed best. Interdimensional mirror calls aren’t possible, at least so far, but I had an idea.

  Scrying spells through a gate tend to become distorted as the point of focus moves beyond the gate opening. Over short distances, they work fine. So, if a mirror has one of a micro-gate pair to let the scrying connection reach another, identical mirror, the scrying spells on the second mirror should be able to link like a call-forwarding function. It’s a lot like the Diogephone. Electronics send a signal through a micro-gate. The other micro-gate feeds that signal into more electronics, which then connect to the communications network. Admittedly, the scrying mirrors don’t have a major cellular network to support them, but if cell phones had planetary range, we wouldn’t have cell networks, either.

  It took a little while to set it up, as well as a brief trip to Karvalen to establish the scry-forwarding setup, but it worked.

  Bob answered the mirror himself.

  “Dark One,” he greeted me, bowing from the neck. If he tried a full obeisance on a mirror, he would drop out of view.

  “Good afternoon. How go things in the under-mountains?”

  “The duchy is as well as can be expected,” he informed me. “The inhabitants are unwashed, uncouth, and unpleasant, but they are orderly and largely obedient. They have learned their lessons well in regard to trade with other races. As for the visitors, the vast majority of them are in Stadius. There are always difficulties, but the order and well-being of the city are firmly in hand.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. And how stands the kingdom?”

  “If I presume incorrectly to understand your question,” he replied, carefully, “my hope is that I shall be gently corrected. The kingdom has one primary external enemy. Against this enemy, much of the Queen’s forces are now committed. Those discontented with the rule of the Bright Queen have been cautioned against any unwise maneuvers in what might they might deem an opportune moment. In my opinion, the kingdom is vulnerable from such internal threats, but those same threats firmly believe the cost of any victory will prove disastrous, possibly catastrophic.”

  “Fair enough. Now, I notice Lissette has sent several thousand men southward.”

  “Yes, Dread Lord?”

  “I did not note any soldiers of the other races, most notably the galgar, orku, or the elves.”

  “That is true, Dread Lord.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bright Queen made neither demand nor request. She levied no troops from the Duchy of Vathula.”

  I felt my face scowling. I put it back into neutral.

  “Any thoughts on why?”

  “I cannot fathom the mind of the Queen.”

  “Good to know. But I asked if you had any thoughts on the matter, not whether or not you could read her mind.”

  “Yes, Dread Lord. I believe she is loath to mix men and other races. They do not ally readily in their daily affairs.”

  “I can see that. It’ll be a serious job of discipline to keep them from fighting each other.”

  “I believe that is her thought, as well.”

  “All right, I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you.”

  “Dread Lord, if I may ask?”

  “Yes?”

  “What progress is there on returning my people to the celestial orb? I would be most disappointed to find we are returning before the conclusion of your Queen’s war.”

  I tried to gauge Bob’s expression, but I might as well have tried to read a scroll in Sanskrit. No, the Sanskrit would be easier. I’m sure I’ve consumed the spirit of someone who understood it. I scrutinized him carefully, but he was inscrutable.

  I didn’t like the way he juxtaposed my task and the war. Was it to remind me of my promise? Was it to suggest he thought I was delaying until the war was over, in case I needed a hundred elven assassins? There was a plethora of implications and possibilities in what he said, none of which I liked.

  Bloody damn elf.

  “I haven’t found a way to open a gate directly to it, so I’ve investigated the shell around the world and the void beyond it. At the moment, I think I’m going to have to build a boat to sail the void. I’ve figured out how to build a tiny firmament and a boat, but I haven’t figured out how to sail the void. Rest assured, I haven’t forgotten and I haven’t given up.”

  “Thank you, Dread Lord, for being mindful of your promise. All the First Elves await your success with deep gratitude.”

  “That’s another question. How many First Elves are there, roughly? Do I need a big boat or a small boat? Or will I need to make several trips? Or what?”

  “There is no clear accounting, but I would estimate our numbers to be approximately seven hundred.”

  “So, either a big boat or multiple trips. Got it. I’ll plan accordingly.”

  “We perpetually thank you, Dread Lord.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I cut the connections, both scrying spells and gate. Then I sat and brooded for a bit. I’ve gotten quite good at it.

  I did promise to get the elves off the world. Well, I promised to find a way. Opening a gate to the moon was one option, but it wasn’t a good option. I don’t know what prevents me from establishing a gate connection—or even a scrying connection—but it’s powerful. I haven’t been able to finesse my way through it and brute-forcing through it promises to be Herculean in scope. I’ve even tried circumventing it by dialing in from another universe. It’s a solid barrier, not merely a shell.

  If Rendu built it, he might be the only one who can take it down, or at least open it up. That, however, would involve ringing the doorbell on the Spire of the Sun. Which could, in theory, wake a whole passel of Heru—primal entities of chaos, apparently—from their nap, and that strikes me as a can of worms. Or Wyrms. The void-sailing boat was pretty much the only…

  Crap.

  What happens if a physical object approaches the moon of Karvalen? Does the barrier—or the lunar firmament, or whatever it is—affect it? It blocks magical intrusion. It might also block physical intrusion, but I don’t know.

  Grumbling, I consulted with Diogenes. Yes, I had plenty of time before the first ships reached the Straits. I got off my butt and headed to Zirafel to test the lunar firmament. As I went to the main g
ate room—there’s no shift-booth in Zirafel—Bronze decided she wanted to come along. That suited me.

  Diogenes reported daylight at both ends, so we opened the gate, stepped through the Great Arch of Zirafel, and proceeded to my infinity bridges.

  I regarded the void through the bluish tinge of the Firmament.

  If I stick something through the Firmament, it dissolves. Well, it comes apart and dissipates as though dissolving. But if I stick my hand through the Firmament, it stays intact as long as I’m paying attention to it. Is that because it’s part of a living being, because I’m paying attention to it, or because my hand is partly composed of chaos energies?

  Before I stick my hand through during the day—and risk losing it—maybe I ought to conduct a few more tests.

  It’s surprising how much science is done by poking things with sticks.

  Zirafel doesn’t have much deadwood lying around, but there are some tough vines, various forms of shrubbery, and a few small trees. I tested pieces of plant and long splinters of stone. Alive or dead didn’t seem to matter. How much attention I focused on them was the sole criteria. If I stuck half a bush out into the void, it started to disintegrate. The more I focused my attention on it, however, the slower it disintegrated. I couldn’t get it to stop, but I could slow the disintegration almost to a standstill. Is that because it isn’t a part of me, a piece of myself? Or do I just not believe I can control it that extensively, so, therefore, I can’t? Or is it purely a matter of focus? Or a combination of things? And would my attention be any more effective at night?

  Tough questions.

  So, armed with some idea of what the void did to material objects, I could test my firmament spell. I took my time and built it carefully since I never cast one outside my headspace simulations. It seemed to work, so I gently pushed a rock with its own firmament out into the void. Once beyond the blue-tinged wall, it floated there, perfectly content to sit in nothingness, surrounded by a faint orange halo.

  I’m not sure why there was an orange halo, but the rock didn’t dissolve. The magical firmament seemed to be working. To be sure, I turned away and started working on a second rock, diverting my attention from the first one.

  When I had the second rock ready, I turned back to gauge the progress of the first one. Instead of a rock, there was a demon. It was elongated and thick, like a fat boa constrictor in mottled grey and olive. The tail had a needle-like stinger and the head was a permanently-open mouth, resembling a lamprey’s. A tongue like a tentacle emerged from the center of the mouth and retracted, like a snake’s tongue tasting the air. The body of the creature writhed constantly as it floated out there. I didn’t see any eyes.

  I turned to Bronze.

  “Did that Thing just eat my rock?”

  Bronze didn’t know. She was trying to focus on other things so as not to spoil my test.

  It did, Firebrand supplied. I felt its presence as it approached. I saw it eat the rock. Swallowed it whole, in fact, orange glow and all. I would have said something, but you were in the middle of your spell.

  “Thanks.”

  I regarded the serpentine demon. It seemed to regard me in return, despite the blurry, distorting effect the Firmament has on the view into the world.

  I flicked a pebble out into the void. The Thing snapped it up.

  “Oh, goodie. Some of these Things seem to regard any normal matter as snacks.”

  Does that mean you’re going to make it a pet?

  “Hell, no!”

  Just asking.

  We continued to regard each other while I thought hostile thoughts. It didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Firebrand, is there any way you can tell this Thing to go away?”

  I’m not sure I can tell it anything. It doesn’t have thoughts the way you and I have thoughts.

  “How do you mean?”

  That’s… hard to explain, boss.

  “Please try.”

  The Thing doesn’t… It’s more of a… hmm. All right, how about this. You and humans and whatnot all think. Some better than others, some louder than others. If your sort of thought is like… like roads on a map, every thought leading to another juncture where you can continue, or divert to another thought… Does this make any sense?

  “I’m with you so far. Thoughts like a road, each leading to another thought.”

  If that’s the thinking we’re familiar with, that Thing thinks like a… like a boiling pool.

  “Okay, you’ve lost me.”

  You think like a road. It’s stone, it goes somewhere, and it’s got a definite direction. Your thinking may not be a straight line, it may branch a lot, but it has a definite progression even if it only goes in circles for a while. That Thing thinks like something boiling. It’s going in every direction at once, doesn’t have a destination or goal, and it burbles.

  “Does it go whiffling through the tulgey wood while it’s burbling?”

  I told you it was hard to explain.

  “Not to Charlie Dodgson. My takeaway on this is it doesn’t have linear thought processes.”

  That’s true enough. I can’t make sense out of it at all. I only know it’s there, not what it’s thinking.

  “Got it. So, how do we make it go away? Kill it?”

  If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t stick me into the void.

  “I’m not planning to. Can we blast it from here?”

  I don’t know. Will a dragon-blast go through the barrier?

  “From this side? Maybe. Let’s try it.”

  I aimed low and to the right. Firebrand burped a burst of fire. As with most things, it exited the Firmament without fuss. Apparently, going out is easy. Getting in can be the challenge.

  However, before we could set our sights on the Thing outside, it writhed around and… swam?… away from us. It’s form lost definition as it departed, becoming less a material Thing and more a formless entity of the void as it gained distance.

  “Did it not like the test fire?”

  Got me. It’s not a mind I understand.

  “I’m not a mind you understand.”

  No, I understand yours. Sort of. I can hear you thinking and, when I do read your thoughts, they make sense. The problem with you is how many thoughts you have. It’s picking one voice out of a crowd. Thinking of thoughts as voices in a crowd, that Thing has a collection of clicks, whistles, and hums going on all the time. You have the babble of a group.

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Do you have any sense of others nearby?”

  Nope.

  “Then I’ll get back to work. Warn me, please.”

  I’ll do my best.

  I got down to spellcasting and tossing rocks.

  By sunset, I established a number of things. Yes, my home-made firmament spell would protect a rock in the void without any help from personal attention. It didn’t last long, but it worked. Adding a power crystal extended the duration considerably, but it didn’t have any magic to draw on out there. I think the only reason Karvalen has magic at all is because magical energy is a side effect, a byproduct, of the Firmament. As for my own version, I couldn’t figure out how to get the thing to draw in power from the void and turn it into usable energy.

  So, in theory, I can raise shields around a void-sailing ship and it’ll be fine until the power runs out.

  I’ve also confirmed the lack of gravity on the outside of the main firmament. Rocks simply float and drift. If I drop one over the Edge, it vanishes into the distance, downward. Presumably, it eventually shoots out the bottom of the Firmament and sails away into the void. But if I gently reach out and place a rock beyond the Firmament, it sits there, drifting slightly, and does so until the chaos eats it away.

  In a way, this is good. The worst part of any Earthly space program is the gravity. Getting from the ground to orbit is hard. Here, all we have to do is step off the edge of infinity and the bridge to nowhere. I don’t need to come up with some sort of Saturn-V rocket system to prope
l a ship to the moon. A relatively minor thrust, over time, should be enough to propel a ship out to match the moon’s orbit.

  Which, of course, raises the question of how the hell a moon orbits the world. If there’s no gravity beyond the Firmament, what keeps it from wandering off into the void? Charisma? Curiosity? A whole lot of invisible rubber bands?

  I hate this place. I hate the physics, I hate the ballistics, I hate the religions, I hate the idiots, I hate the world.

  Okay, maybe I don’t hate everything about it. It does upset me something awful, though.

  I went off to hide from the setting sun.

  I’m not sure which I like more, the Imperial Family’s residence or my quarters in Apocalyptica. The converted missile silos have a very safe, cozy feel to them despite the oversized hallways, and they’re as comfortable as technology will allow. But the Palace in Zirafel, for all its faded glory, is still opulent and luxurious where it’s not outright decadent.

  I find it amusing how Bronze walks up to the maintenance golems and gets in their way so they’ll give her a good clean-and-polish. Apparently, it tickles. It’s also interesting how the palace defense golems don’t challenge her when she enters. I’m not sure what their trigger conditions are. How do they decide if something is alive or not? Organic versus metallic? Or do they only react to things of reasonably human shape?

  Once I finished my own cleaning routine, I returned to my firmament-examining spot and considered what I knew. Defending a material object against the forces of the void? Check. But how about the Firmament of the moon? It’s the sole survivor of seven moons, or so I’m told. How is this one different?

  Well, I wasn’t going to equip a rock with a shield and see how fast I could throw it.

  While I can’t open a gate onto the local moon, I can open a gate into the void. Admittedly, it’s done with brute force and determination, but there are ways around that. The process isn’t easy, but it is fairly straightforward. Establish a scrying lock just outside the lunar shield. Open a brute-force gate from here to there. Push through a small ring-gate with a mini-firmament shielding spell to keep it from dissolving. Let the brute-force gate close, then connect to the ring gate.