The Sword of Shadows

by Adrian Cole

  His first thought was, why was he here? Who had brought him out of the dream regions this time? No doubt the Dark Gods were behind it, for he was ever their pawn and they had thrust him into the many dimensions when it had suited them. He had no control over that, though he yet sought a way. Otherwise it could have been the scheming Elfloq, the winged familiar who had never been averse to goading both men and gods into invoking the Voidal before now. But there was no sign of the squamous little figure.

  The Voidal decided it must be the work of the Dark Gods. Until he had performed some grim, unwitting deed, he must remain here. His memory had been partially restored, and he had an abrupt vision of the terrible landscape of Vyzandine, volcano world of the fallen god, Krogarth, where he had lately endured the rigours of a hellish battle. Instinctively he examined his right hand. It was his own, restored in the aftermath of that terrible death struggle. So, the Dark Gods had kept their word. The Oblivion Hand, their hand, was no longer his burden.

  However, in spite of the tropical humidity of this place, he felt a shiver: someone would likely die because of his coming, to feed the needs of his hidden masters. He felt the living wood beneath him stir like a branch in a breeze, as though it had read his troubled thoughts. Something fluttered nearby on wings as thin and brightly hued as a butterfly. He looked up to see a number of beings like plants. They eddied around him closer and he saw that they were hemispherical sacs with clusters of bright pink petals spreading from their tops: these pulsed gently and acted as wings.

  “Who are you, and why have you come to Verdanniel?” the whispering voices asked him. He knew at once that it was these flying things, their words a susurration, an echo inside his head.

  “How did you enter the universe of the Tree Citadel?” came another voice.

  The dark man shook his head. “I cannot answer any of your questions. I have little control over what happens to me.”

  He could sense the floating creatures trying to probe what must be held in his mind, but they trembled with puzzlement, for it could be no more than a pool of dark turmoil to them, as it was to him.

  “You must come with us to the Hollow of Thought.”

  He had no alternative, and besides, no riddles could be answered until he had acquired certain information. The hovering tree beings floated around him, edging him along the wooden ramparts of this strange place. As he walked, he discovered that he was on a fantastically interwoven highway of thick branches, none of which appeared to be attached to a visible trunk. Above and below him much of this peculiar arboreal architecture was obscured by thick fronds and leaves, together with an abundance of exotic blooms and flowers that shone with colours of every conceivable hue. The dark man had never before seen such a breathtaking display of vegetation. Somehow it seemed to be part of one colossal parent plant.

  There were places along the vertiginous journey where water fell from above, and in the curves and dips on the branches pools of trapped moisture had formed. The air was clamorous with the cries of birds, the plumage of which vied in splendour with that of the foliage. From far below him, the dark man could hear the answering hoots and shrills of yet more indigenous creatures.

  Soon the hovering plants stopped. Before them the tangled framework of branches parted to form a natural clearing. Above was a circle of clear blue sky, ringed by waving leaves, while below all was lost in a hazy distance where the endless branches and shoots tangled anew in an artificial floor. In the centre of this clearing rose what at first appeared to be a green column, but which was in fact another plant, like an unripe trunk. A single branch, no wider than two men, grew outwards towards this silent plant, ending yards from it like an unfinished pier. The dark man realised that he was expected to walk out over the dizzy drop and stand before the plant. He did so.

  As he waited, balanced on the very edge of the branch, a number of translucent tendrils undulated across to him. He fought the urge to defend himself or run from them and waited. They tickled across his face, gentle as a lover’s hands, then softly parted his hair, affixing themselves with infinite care to his scalp.

  “You do not fear me?” It was a question, as well as a voicing of surprise.

  “I do not fear that which I know nothing of,” replied the Voidal.

  “A unique reply, for men usually fear most what they do not understand,” mused the mental voice.

  “I am not as other men.”

  “Indeed? My children would seem to agree, for they tell me that your head is full of screaming colours and thoughts that conflict and drift apart. But you do not have the appearance of a madman. Have you, perhaps, been touched by some god?”

  “I fear so,” nodded the Voidal. “I am used.”

  There was a long pause, as though the two minds were studying each other. That of the plant seemed to sigh. “The mysteries locked within you remain closed to me. It must be, therefore, that you are what you say.”

  “Who are you?” the dark man asked.

  “I am Verdanniel, god of this universe. You see now why your are a puzzle to me. What other god or gods have you brought into my realm?”

  “Their names and identities are as much a secret to me as my own. If you cannot read the answers for yourself, Verdanniel, I cannot tell you.”

  This was apparently good enough for the Tree god. “Dark things are happening in my universe. Events transpire here which are not rooted in my designs. This is strange, for all that occurs should be through me. You are not the first recent intruder.”

  Across the drop, the dark man saw leaves unfolding above him. From out of their centre depended a stalk, upon the end of which dangled a light green pod. It opened as it swung over the drop. Inside was what appeared to be the body of an imp, blue-skinned and inordinately ugly. Its hands terminated not in fingers, but in five small sickles.

  “Is this an accomplice?” asked Verdanniel.

  The dark man shook his head at sight of the motionless figure, which was either dead or unconscious. “I have no recollections of this creature, though my memory is incomplete.”

  “It came to the Tree Citadel with a prophecy. That my enemies would have aid in destroying me, aid from outside. It said that some evil god would assist in my destruction. Are you that god?”

  Ripples of unease spread throughout the Voidal’s frame, for it was conceivable that the Dark Gods had brought him here to destroy Verdanniel. “You must seek the answer to that in the mind of the imp,” he replied, “for again, I cannot answer.”

  “I see that I must.” Verdanniel lowered the dangling pod and set it down upon another jutting branch, close to that which sustained the Voidal. The imp was not dead, for as the pod withdrew, he stirred, then sat up dazedly, staring around in horrified amazement. The first words that passed his lips were gruff and obscene. He rose to his feet and hissed at the air creatures, his sickle-fingers zipping through the air in several wild passes.

  “Do you know me?” the Voidal challenged him.

  On seeing the black-garbed man and the tendrils about his head, the imp drew back with another curse. His sickles were before him defensively. “Who are you? Tree god?”

  “You prophesied that one would come here — am I he?” said the dark man.

  “Who is your master? Say who and I’ll say if I know you.”

  “Say, rather, who is your master,” demanded the Voidal.

  The imp spat accurately over the lip of the branch. “Don’t know you, nor you I. No words for you, or the trees!”

  Verdanniel’s voice returned to the dark man’s head. “So it would seem you are not allies.”

  The Voidal shook his head. “I think not.”

  “Lost!” called the imp. “Never wanted to come here. Let me be.”

  The Voidal spoke softly to the Tree god so that the imp could not hear his words. “Release him. Perhaps he will lead you to his master, if he is here.”

  “You are the only interloper in my universe, save for the minions of the warrior lord, who seek my
lifeblood.”

  “Who are they?”

  “You know them not? They serve Mitsujin, a conqueror from another dimension who has ruptured a way into me. He seeks my precious sap which would strengthen his armies a thousandfold.”

  “Then this imp must be his slave —”

  “Not so. The prophecy of the imp was intended for the ears of Mitsujin, not for me. The promised aid was for this intruding conqueror. The evil god that seeks my downfall promises aid to Mitsujin.”

  The Voidal began to feel that perhaps he had not been sent here to destroy Verdanniel after all. More likely the Dark Gods had set him up against this Mitsujin. But who was it that was to aid Mitsujin?

  Verdanniel read each thought that passed coherently through the Voidal’s mind. “Perhaps, dark man, you will aid me and stand with me against this conqueror from Oshotogi?”

  “If I am able to do so, I shall. Tell me all that you know of the intruders.”

  “Very well, but first let the imp go. His flight may teach us more.”

  The Voidal gestured to the blue-skinned being, who growled something before skulking along the branch out of sight.

  * * * *

  The forest stretched out along the very crest of the low hills and spilled over the last of them like a long green wave, dipping down to a wide valley floor where the trees ended. The valley became a plain that spread for miles into the hazy distance and from that haze there arose tall mountains — or so they seemed. The army that was encamped in the forest at the foot of the hills looked out at those barely visible mountains across the plain and knew that they were not mountains at all, but the remarkable sky-piercing entanglements of the Tree Citadel, that colossal vegetable structure that was the very essence of Verdanniel himself.

  In his tent, the warlord, Mitsujin, spoke confidently with his chieftains. He had entered Verdanniel’s universe with a fanatical horde, personally coming to mastermind the draining of priceless sap from the body of that vast, tranquil god. The gate that had punctured the perimeters of Verdanniel’s universe had been widened. The Tree god had been caught unawares by the blight that had been used and had acted too late to halt the torrential flow of Mitsujin’s warriors. The warlord, his veins afire with the belief that his own passionate gods would be with him, would stop at nothing. He would succeed, or die gloriously in battle and thus sit alongside the terrible gods of Oshotogi.

  A shout from outside brought Mitsujin to his feet. He was lithe and alert, the twin blades at his sides always a mere second from his grasp. He snatched aside the flaps of the tent.

  “Someone crosses the plain — alone,” came the message.

  Presently Mitsujin and a heavy escort stood on a knoll overlooking the dip in the landscape that reached as far back as the distant Tree Citadel. The warlord could see the tiny figure in the distance. He motioned riders out to it.

  Soon they returned, escorting the surly, blue-skinned Gelder, Orgoom.

  “Words for Mitsujin, no other,” spat the Gelder, apparently contemptuous of the countless blades that surrounded and menaced him.

  Mitsujin stood before him, dwarfing him. He glared down, face an emotionless mask. “Well?”

  “I serve Ubeggi, the Weaver of Wars,” began Orgoom.

  Mitsujin’s heart gave a lurch, for he had heard of this fearful warrior god. But his face remained like stone. He waited.

  “Ubeggi seeks the fall of Verdanniel. Will aid you.”

  This appeared to be the entire message. Mitsujin considered it, then gave a hint of a bow. “You must excuse my impertinence, voice of Ubeggi, but why should such a divine overlord aid a mere maggot of the soil such as I?”

  “Ubeggi asks only that you swear fealty to him and no other, once you have conquered here. Discard the gods of Oshotogi, for all gods are the enemies of the Weaver of Wars. One by one he will eliminate them,” Orgoom concluded with a hawk.

  A muted roar went up from the yellow and black ranks of the warriors who heard this blasphemy. Mitsujin stilled them all with a motion of his hand. He indicated his tent. “Please enter,” he told Orgoom. “We will talk further privately.”

  Orgoom grunted, confident that his master’s will would be enforced. No one refused to serve the Weaver of Wars, least of all those whose very existence thrived on conquest, for Ubeggi was generous to those who did his killing.

  As Mitsujin and the Blue Gelder went into the tent, the warriors went back to their waiting. None noticed the plant creature drift upward on a breeze and float far away towards the remote Tree Citadel, the words it had heard still clear in its mind.

  Some time later Mitsujin emerged from his tent. At once he called all his chiefs to him and they gathered before a small hill at the edge of the forest to hear his words. The warlord stood with legs apart, arms on hips, glaring almost insolently at his men as though daring them to challenge him, even though he had not yet spoken. Behind him stood the surly Gelder, his features puckered in a permanent scowl.

  “Hear me!” Mitsujin roared in a voice that would have shouted down the wind. “I have reached a decision. We are to march on the Tree Citadel and take what we will of its vital juices. Verdanniel will gather himself to oppose us, and there will undoubtedly be a bloody battle. Many of you will die.”

  This was greeted with cheers, for the men of Mitsujin were eager to die for their wild causes.

  “To die in such a battle would indeed be glorious, but far greater the glory if we triumph. We must do so! Vaster rewards await us should we drink deep of Verdanniel’s precious sap. Then we would be truly invincible. Is this not a prize worthy of any endeavour, and of any price?”

  The reply was unanimous in its agreement.

  “There is one who will secure our victory. The greatest god of war in the entire omniverse! To find favour with him, to be chosen to serve him, imparts riches beyond belief. Is there a warrior here who could resist such an honour? Is there a warrior here who could name a greater honour?” Mitsujin shouted defiantly at them, his face drawn into a veritable mask of war, his manner terrible to behold.

  No one dared to speak. But the silence was eloquent.

  “We knew that it was time we rose above our past. In Oshotogi we were heroes, smiled upon by the gods there. But see! We have outgrown our old home. We reach for greater glories. We have outgrown the old gods! They have no power here. If we triumph over Verdanniel — when we do so — we shall be greater than the old gods! We need not die to stand beside them, but living, stand over them. We have been watched and are favoured by the Weaver of Wars!”

  The warriors thought on this, many nodding, some keeping their faces absolutely impassive. Mitsujin did indeed resemble a god, as though he had only to lift his hand for mountains to fall. In his own mind, he was a god already.

  “Are we united?” he cried. “Do we wish to become more than men? Will we acknowledge the frightful might of Ubeggi and swear fealty to him? Will we accept the glories he will heap upon us? Climb from your modest stations with me and we will stride among the stars! Accept the terms!”

  If there were dissenters in all that massed gold and black, their doubts were lost in the savage shout of compliance from the majority. The warriors chose to stand with Mitsujin, and thus Ubeggi: the glories of conquest were like an aphrodisiac to them.

  Mitsujin turned to the Blue Gelder. “Go back to your master. He has our answer. We dedicate our coming victory to him.”

  * * * *

  The Voidal stood upon a high place, looking out from the last of the branches at the flat landscape so far below. Verdanniel had had him brought here to the outer ramparts of the Tree Citadel to let him look out over the world and see the coming of the enemy. It was as though the dark man stood on a high mountain ledge, studying the colossal drop to the lowlands. Green earth spread away to hazy distance, like a detailed map. There were low hills and a small range of mountains some thirty miles across the plain, stained dark by plentiful forests. It was there, said Verdanniel, that the enemy was gathere
d.

  All around the Voidal the plant beings hovered in the air, as thick now as windblown seeds. They would be the Tree God’s defenders, but they had such little strength for conflict. The dark man sensed the despair and acute anxiety of the Tree god, for Verdanniel had never designed his world for contest. It had never been anything but peaceful.

  “I must revitalise powers within me that I had thought never to use again,” said Verdanniel. “I came here and built this universe to escape the strivings of my fellow gods. Their constant warring appalled me; they were never satisfied with the powers they had. I am afraid that my own powers are devoted now to creation, nurture and healing. This Mitsujin frightens me to my very roots.”

  “And you say that the Weaver of Wars is the most powerful of all the gods?” the Voidal asked, having heard the report of the plant being that had drifted across the great plain from Mitsujin’s war camp.

  “Perhaps. He is at least the most reckless, the most bellicose. If Ubeggi is to aid the conqueror, my very existence is threatened. I cannot guess what Ubeggi will send against me.”

  “Why should this god seek your death?”

  Verdanniel sighed deeply. “It is his only purpose, to destroy all those around him, or bend and warp them to his will. To undo the works of others. All gods delight in creation and are driven from within to perform wonders. But Ubeggi is driven by a lust for destruction. What others build, he will pull down. In this he is alone, but nonetheless powerful for all that.”

  “You speak as though you are already doomed,” said the Voidal.

  “I will fight. For the lives of my offspring.”

  “Are there no gods who will aid you?”

  Again Verdanniel sighed. “I chose to live here in isolation from them all. I spurned them and their war-like ways. They would certainly spurn me now if I called upon them for aid.”