by Adrian Cole
THE VOIDAL SERIES
Oblivion Hand
The Long Reach of Night
The Sword of Shadows
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2011 by Adrian Cole.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
The Weaver of Wars first appeared in a slightly different form in Weirdbook magazine, No 23/24, 1988.
At the Council of Gossipers is a revised version of the story published in Dark Horizons magazine no 21, 1980.
Dark Destroyer was first published in a slightly different form in Swords Against the Millennium, Alchemy Press, Autumn 2000.
DEDICATION
For enduring support, hugely appreciated:
Dave Holmes
Dave Brzeski
Bob Covington
Roger and Rod
EXORDIUM
So, I begin once more this history of the dark man, pawn of the shadow gods who turn universes on their axis.
Though I sense the darkness coiling about my lonely retreat and imagine that I hear its measured breath, yet I am not molested. Perhaps the war that rages between the gods distracts them from a mere exile such as myself and my recorded impieties. For I know that it never ends, this god war, merely ebbing and flowing like an ocean, its tides washing the shores of human existence, re-shaping them sometimes as no more than an afterthought.
Wars and wars within wars, these are the things of which I must speak now. Gods fall, gods rise, some die, others live on and, like the tide, come again. The power of gods fluctuates, surging, breaking, dispersing.
The greatest of them may be humbled by the oceans of change, while even the least of those creatures that catch the tide at the flood may benefit. We all cling to the debris of hope. Even the outcasts, the condemned.
In this spirit I begin this history again.
—SALECCO, flotsam on the tides of Fate
PART ONE: THE WEAVER OF WARS
The Dark Gods had been strict in their control of the Voidal and in their manipulation of him. Part of the curse with which they had burdened him was that he should befriend and be befriended by no man.
I have written elsewhere of how Elfloq, craftiest of familiars, had sought to overcome this censure by emphasising that he was not a man and thus immune to reprisals. While some remarked on this insouciance with amazement, others were far more sceptical, seeing in the dark union a hidden purpose that would ultimately serve the Dark Gods.
At this juncture in my history, where the very gods clash and shatter in the maelstrom of their wars, I must introduce another pawn in their ineluctable machinations. Though he, unlike Elfloq, was never a willing protagonist.
—Salecco, whose own memory of companions grows fainter by the hour
* * * *
Tyrandire, the Palace of Pain, moves secretly and silently through unseen tunnels between the many dimensions of the omniverse, traversing any of them that its grim master wishes to visit. A minute moon, perfectly circular, colder than terror, Tyrandire speeds on its way like light, sometimes lingering like a biting frost. The energy that charges this oval missile is greater than that of any sun, indeed greater than the energy contained within an entire universe, for it is the will of the outlaw god, Ubeggi the Deceitful. Where Ubeggi seeks to go, his Palace of Pain takes him. He has many missions, all of them selfish, all of them corrupt, for the Weaver of Wars exists solely for his own amusement and he delights in knotting together the workings of more thoughtful gods or undoing their orderly tapestries of fate. All the gods know of Ubeggi, and when his Palace of Pain nears their own haunts in the omniverse, they curse him, knowing that his mischief will be upon them.
* * * *
Inside the Palace of Pain, Ubeggi entertained several visitors. (Those who came here could not rightly be termed guests, for Ubeggi admitted no equals.) These seven beings stood in an ovoid chamber near the heart of the Palace. Before them was no more than a shimmering image encased in a globe, a projection of a laughing face, though the laughter that shaped the face distorted its lines cruelly and made of it a mockery of amusement. Ubeggi often laughed, but his laughter was unique to himself, for others read into that laughter only terror.
Those who now stood before their master were not ordinary beings. They were creatures that had once been men, but whom Ubeggi had warped into hybrids for his own purposes. Blue-skinned, hairless, hunched as though they always walked in fear, they resembled demons, and indeed their nature was much akin to those evil beings. They had no hands, only a clutch of five small sickles where there fingers should have been. Those sickles were said to be capable of cutting in twain the web strands of the smallest spider.
“Well, my pretty Gelders,” came the voice of Ubeggi from the globe. “What have you to report? Tell me of the places you have visited. What seeds of ill have you sown?”
At this, each of the Blue Gelders growled a short report: each of them had visited one of the many dimensions, searching out information, studying kings and empires, monarchs and dictators, sowing discontent, or noting where it simmered, ready to be brought to the boil. Ubeggi would evaluate all the news that his spies brought him and from it would initiate some new campaign of terror, aimed at bringing into conflict whole empires and even gods, for he was eager for new sport. It gave him the greatest pleasure to destroy the reputation of gods and turn their worshippers away from them.
As the last of the seven finished his report, Ubeggi nodded, musing on their words. “So, Cattapermennon still builds a star empire in Gorzendoom, does he? I think I shall let him consolidate his conquests a while longer. Shaddar H’mmil and his vermin grow stronger in the Well of Odak, too? And Aacrol of the Oceans grows weaker, does he? But, no, he is too feeble to warrant my attentions. Age will decay him, not I. I like the sound of the rebellion on Alendar. I’ve half a mind to spoil the Bloodwight dominion: Androzael grows fat and lazy there.” Ubeggi deliberated long, but somehow none of the reports he had received filled him with the zest for a campaign.
“Wait, though. Were there not eight of you in the cell that I sent out?” he said. “Who is missing?”
The Gelders looked at each other unhappily. One of them spoke. “Orgoom, master. We awaited him as long as we dared without rousing your impatience, but he has not returned.”
“From where?”
“From the universe of the Tree Citadel, Verdanniel,” replied another.
Ubeggi mused on that. “I sent Orgoom there as an afterthought. Life on Verdanniel is not accustomed to war — the turmoil of growth, certainly — but a war as we know it would risk destruction to the great Tree and thus to all Verdanniel. And Verdanniel is little more than a gardener! He controls his subjects with great care. I wonder how my little Gelder has gone astray.”
None could answer that, having been on other errands.
“A riddle, then,” smiled Ubeggi. “Some good has come of your work. I will set to solving it. It may yet lead to a new game.” With a final chuckle, he dismissed the relieved Gelders.
* * * *
Orgoom, in fact, was no longer in the universe of the Tree Citadel, to which his master had sent him, though he had of late been there, prying into its secrets and its intrigues. Curiously he now found himself floating in a most unique fashion in what appeared to be a void in space. Distance had blotted out the stars. He knew this must be an illusion, for he could breathe and was not cold. To be sure, he told himself uncomfortably, he was floating in an illusion, which could well be the working of Verdanniel, the all-encompassing god whose being made up the universe of the Tree Citadel, angered by the work of Orgoom. This was strange, though, for Orgoom had done no open harm (aside from prying into ma
tters social and political) and it was not forbidden for astral travellers to pass across the Tree universe.
Orgoom fixed his attention on a point of light that grew. Now he became cold, prompted by fear, for the light formed itself into a long arm of impossible dimensions. It reached from the depths of space on a thin, tenuous thread and the hand touched the Gelder’s chest. Its touch was clammy, unhealthy, as though blighted by plague. Orgoom screeched as it slithered over him like a tongue. Courage was not his forte.
“You have been exercising your insufferable curiosity again, have you not?” said a disembodied voice. Orgoom shivered: it was harsher and even more suggestive of pain than even the laughing voice of Ubeggi. More hands came snaking out of the night from infinity, dabbing and teasing at his flesh. He writhed.
“Who are you?”
“We are those who do the asking. We are the Divine Askers.”
Orgoom gurgled with an even deeper-rooted fear, for these invisible horrors were the inquisitors of the Dark Gods, who none dared oppose.
“Why were you in the universe of the Tree Citadel?”
Orgoom had to watch his words. He dare not seek to outwit the Askers, but he would be thrice damned if he as much as whispered a word against Ubeggi. It was for such reasons that the ugly, blue-skinned Gelder loathed his position in life. He would gladly have become a dung roach had the opportunity been given to him. Clearly, though, such an opportunity was not about to present itself.
“Collecting information.”
“For some reward?”
“Quiet life is all I want!” insisted Orgoom.
“Yet your master, Ubeggi, seeks anything but that, Gelder. What, we wonder, does he seek in the universe of Verdanniel?”
“Never told me, Just sent me.”
“For an informer, Gelder, you are remarkably tight-lipped.”
“Ubeggi just says go. Find out things.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Trouble brewing. Verdanniel’s creatures have been attacked. By others from outside.”
“Describe these others.”
Orgoom was anxious not to conceal anything, certain that these Askers already knew what he did. Why must they toy with a flea such as himself? “Warriors. Looking for conquest. Want to win Verdanniel.”
“So you expect Ubeggi to foster a war there? One that would likely destroy Verdanniel?”
“Don’t know. Just do my duty. Collecting information.”
“Duty? To Ubeggi or to the Dark Gods? You cannot serve both, for they oppose each other.”
Orgoom felt his bowels loosening. Here was a pretty dilemma. It seemed he must make a frightful choice. But the immediate threat was obviously the one to avert. “I am forced to obey those who prod me, masters. Dark Gods are omnipotent. Their will is my deed.”
Soft laughter came from around the floating Gelder, but it chilled him just as if it had been his master’s. “Go back to the Weaver. Encourage war in the universe of the Tree Citadel. Do all you can to persuade Ubeggi into it. Understand? Serve him well, and remember nothing of this meeting.”
Orgoom felt the awful hands slithering off him and withdrawing. He was not to have his brains clawed open after all. The words were riddles, but what gods or divine messengers spoke otherwise?
“Go back to Ubeggi? It is done, masters.”
* * * *
Again Orgoom felt hands of fear pulling at him, tightening his insides. An audience with Ubeggi never bred comfort or relaxation. Orgoom and his fellow Gelders snatched what comfort they could in numbers. However, to be stood before the Weaver of Wars on one’s own, that was something to squeeze one’s bladder. Orgoom trembled as the face in the huge orb glared at him.
“So you have deigned to return at last, little Orgoom. What has kept you so long? You must have a considerable amount to report.”
Orgoom made several attempts to speak, failing each time and lapsing into a growling monologue in which his tongue contrived to knot itself around his thick lips. He was known for his lack of eloquence, but in his current state of fear he had surpassed even that in incomprehensibility. He did not want to blab about the Askers.
Ubeggi was in a patient mood, amused by the gibbering. “Come, come, little Orgoom! If it were not for the fact that you are one of my most successful Gelders, albeit reluctantly, I’d have had you killed off long since. I’ve a fancy you’d like that, though! You serve me well, so why fear me now? Come, say what you must! What is it that transpires in Verdanniel’s universe?”
“W-w-war’s a-brewing, master.”
“How intriguing. I should have thought it the last place in the omniverse for violence. Have the plants developed teeth?”
“No, master. Outsiders have found a way in. Gates must be weak,” Orgoom stuttered. “Tree creatures worried. Can’t stop flow.”
“Outsiders, you say? Who? Who are they? Describe them.”
“Warriors. Thin and nimble. Black and gold armour. Swords like needles. One each side. Mean to steal the wealth of Verdanniel. Steal the blood of the Tree. Use it to grow strong, like gods. Build up their own empire.” Orgoom was not given to long speeches, nor over-use of words, which were a premium with him, one serving where others would have used a score. But Ubeggi had a quicksilver mind that could assimilate information from a thousand sources in an instant. Orgoom’s scant words were enough.
“Black and gold armour? Swords like needles, to suck out the blood of Verdanniel. The Tree is Verdanniel, its sap a unique potion. With sufficient of it, a nation could become like an army of demi-gods! Good! Do these warriors have a lord?”
“Don’t know,” mumbled Orgoom.
“Did the name, Mitsujin, reach your ears?”
The organs referred to seemed to quiver for a moment, as though a sullen bell had sounded close to them. “Yes, master! Heard it whispered by the leaves and in the branches.”
“Mitsujin!” sighed Ubeggi. “A most ambitious conqueror. I have been watching his rise. Already, for one so young, he has branded together the warring nations of his own world, Oshotogi, and spread an empire far across his dimension. Almost as great an empire as those of Cattapermennon and Shaddar H’mmil I spoke of earlier. Well, I had thought I might extend their triumphs, but this ambitious Mitsujin excites me more. He has found a gate into Verdanniel? How very singular. Oh, this is a fine tale you bring me, after all, Orgoom! What a worthy vassal you are.”
Orgoom grunted, which could have signified pleasure or relief.
“I will elaborate some plans,” mused the Weaver. “Perhaps I can open still more gates for Mitsujin. Verdanniel must be getting careless. Well, we must have you sent to the warlord. I have words for him that you must carry.”
Once Orgoom was dismissed, some time later, his heart beat less violently. His brush with the Divine Askers had not come out, nor should it need to now. Yet who would next pull the Gelder’s strings? He muttered curses to himself and wished again for the guise of a worm or roach in some remote universe far from all conniving gods.
* * * *
When the god Verdanniel first entered the small universe that was later to become the universe of the Tree Citadel, it was empty and no more than a void, a pocket of nothingness. Verdanniel fashioned a large world and upon this planted himself in the form of a sprawling tree-growth. Into the earth of the world he had created, Verdanniel spread his roots, and across the surface of the world he spread his shoots. Into the skies he diffused countless clouds of his seed, so that in time all the heavens were seeded and other worlds were born and pollinated. All life that spread throughout Verdanniel’s universe was rooted in Verdanniel, so that all that happened there was known to the Tree god. To be spread so far and wide taxed the god, though, for he had never been as formidable as many of the other gods, and certainly not one who cared for conflict.
In the Tree Citadel, which was the heart of this universe, there lived the tree beings, which were fragile and delicate, for their purpose was not to go forth and c
onquer the universe, but to nurture it and tend its rampant growth. These tree beings were the hands of Verdanniel: their strength came from the very sap of the god and they partook of it to the exclusion of any other nourishment. Its properties were unique and gave the tree beings their remarkable powers, which included an enduring life and healing abilities.
Verdanniel had closed up his small universe by sealing any gates that had led into it (such gates between dimensions and universes being the prerogative of gods throughout the omniverse). Thus there was no reason for him to suppose that anyone or thing would ever visit his enclosed universe again. As time passed, Verdanniel came to rely upon his tree beings more and more, himself dreaming lazily, content to do little more than produce the sap which sustained his universe. It was this sap that had drawn the attentions of Mitsujin.
The warlord had heard about it through legends, of course, but had never thought to find a key to the closed universe of the Tree Citadel. That he did so came about by chance (if one is naïve enough to believe in such a preposterous concept). Universes may be closed, but the one common link between them all is the astral realm, which is admittedly only accessible to certain gods and beings, such as elementals and familiars.
A certain tree sprite of Verdanniel used the astral to speed a long journey and was abducted by wraiths loyal to Mitsujin, whose allies numbered among them all manner of beings. It was this tree sprite that provided the eventual lever, which forced a minor gate into Verdanniel’s universe. Hence the conqueror from Oshotogi sent his minions in to gather what sap of the Tree they could, for it would make supermen of his warriors. Now the warlord prepared to enter the universe of Verdanniel himself.
* * * *
The dark man opened his eyes, then closed them against the unaccustomed glare. Was this no more than a continuation of his confused dreams? But then he knew that it was not, for the unique sense of total awareness that came with each new entry into one of the many dimensions permeated his entire system. Gently he opened his eyes again, adjusted them, and sighed. Through a vivid green canopy of leaves, he could see a remote blue sky. This was not one of the darker dimensions, for looking about him he could see healthy vegetation. He stood upon a firm wooden rampart that appeared to be part of a living branch.