by Adrian Cole
They spoke of the clandestine marriage of Sisthric the Beautiful, a devastatingly powerful demi-goddess, to the young mage Holec, whose powers were already on a par with the lesser gods and who would certainly make himself immortal through his union with Sisthric. They spoke of the growth of the Reptilians, a race of quasi-demons spreading like a plague down in the hidden dimensions of Dourdreg, the Deepwells and Tyrrica. And they spoke, with ever growing concern, of the apparent linking together of many dark occurrences, small and large in scale, that more than hinted at an overall and terrifying will. Indeed, as each new speaker addressed the Council, fragments of this awesome puzzle slotted together ominously so that a grim picture began to form, thus justifying the efficacy of the Council.
Elfloq felt an internal writhing of his abdominal organs. This frightful pattern shaped by the various speakers was unquestionably linked to his premonition of earlier and made it the more worrying. There was indeed a cloud forming around the omniverse and it was thickening.
Ecclesiastro had decided to speak himself. “My learned colleagues have done right to unburden themselves of their secrets. I, too, can shed light on this spectre that seems now more substantial than was first realised. My own master, Robanda Nodrin of Jagg, has shied away from the implications of what lies outside us. It is not a power from beyond the many dimensions, but one that seems to exist in all of them. Like a single nightmare that has become many nightmares, each more evil than the last. Individually these terrors are powerful enough — combined they threaten omnipotence. And the gods are so single-minded, how could they combine? How could their vanities permit them this?”
“Then how,” said another respected familiar, “can such chaotic forces as these evils we have described themselves combine? Are they not less stable?”
“Have you not listened, Ratcarve? Have you not stepped back and looked at the overall picture depicted by all our contributions? The drawing together of these innumerable evil forces is evidence that such a unifying will is at work. Like a shattered mirror repairing itself. It may take many ages, but if it should draw together all its disparate shards, then it will mean the complete and total recreation of the omniverse itself! It is not for me alone to ponder the implications of this. Your own minds can no doubt grasp the horror of it for themselves.”
Another speaker rose. “But surely the gods know of this. Surely they, too, are already at work, counteracting these dark activities?”
Ecclesiastro nodded. “We must look for evidence. I think we may have heard some already. Who now will come forward and tell us of brighter things? Who knows of the whelming of evil? Whose masters have served Light of late?”
Several familiars hopped forward to speak of such things, but they talked of small matters, minor things that seemed insignificant compared to the growing advances of darkness described previously. Elfloq noticed that Orgoom, for the first time since their meeting in the Inn With No Sign, had become quite excited, seemingly unable to contain himself.
“I must take my own turn now,” the Gelder said, and would not be forestalled.
“Wait —”
“My story has importance,” said Orgoom, getting up.
Elfloq could not prevent him and had to be content with one swift warning. “Under no circumstances mention the name of the one who saved you from Ubeggi. They will kill you,” he hissed, easing into a deeper shadow.
Orgoom stiffened, but nodded, for Elfloq had not been totally ungenerous to him. The Blue Gelder now had the attention of the Council and they bade him speak. He went on then in his stumbling, truncated way, to tell of how he had once been a Blue Gelder of Ubeggi, the Weaver of Wars, and had been one of his most useful spies and torturers, though always against his will. He told how the infamous Weaver had planned the downfall and destruction of Verdanniel, the Tree God. This evil act, obviously quite in keeping with the other evil acts noted by this Council, had been thwarted by the intervention of a strange being, a dark man who had not only blunted Ubeggi’s offensive, but who had also insured the salvation of the Tree God and his self-contained universe. Ubeggi, furthermore, an immensely powerful god, had not reared up from defeat as expected to smite those who had thwarted him. Orgoom went on to explain that he had been freed from the bondage of serving Ubeggi, and that to his utter amazement the Weaver of Wars had, as yet, taken no steps to punish him.
In the gloom, Elfloq nodded to himself. It was this curious puzzle that had attracted him to the Gelder, for the immensely destructive power of Ubeggi was well known.
The Council of Gossipers was mightily impressed by Orgoom’s story. “Well, well,” said Ecclesiastro, “this is heartening, most heartening. A force that could negate Ubeggi. But surely the Weaver can only have turned his attentions elsewhere temporarily. He would never accept defeat. Indeed, is he possible to defeat? This must be a mere tactical manoeuvre. Which gives us something to ponder. But, Gelder, tell us more about this dark man —”
“It seems to me,” said Elfloq, cutting in very quickly as he hovered down to the very heart of the hearing, “that it must be the Dark Gods who have taken a hand in this affair.”
There was a unified murmur of amazement. One did not speak lightly of the Dark Gods.
“Ah, Elfloq. Why am I not surprised that you were lurking out there somewhere in the half light?” nodded Ecclesiastro, and there were many knowing smiles. “The Dark Gods, you say? How are they involved?”
“I learned but recently that they are not the evil masters of the night, as is commonly supposed. Not evil at all.”
Grins turned to grimaces at this. Ecclesiastro scowled as if the batrachian familiar had said something highly offensive. “What are you babbling about?”
“On Mare Serenis I helped to save a dying water sprite from tragedy and for my efforts he taught me that the Dark Gods are the gods of Justice. They are Punishers, but they are opposed to this gathering of evil.” Elfloq waited a brief moment, long enough to assure himself that he had wrested all attention from Orgoom, who, he felt sure, had been about to speak of the dark man.
“Are you certain?” said Ecclesiastro. “This is contrary to all understanding of the Dark Gods.”
“Indeed, I am. They stand in the shadows of anonymity, not the black cloak that symbolises evil. And they would seem to have shown themselves at work many times of late. Furthermore, always they oppose the evil powers that are rife. Why, they spared me from as heinous a servitude as that of the Gelder. I was once the familiar of Quarramagus — and who here has not heard of that vile sorcerer? — but the Dark Gods saw fit to tear down the Csarducts who he served. I, alone, survived that debacle. Now I am between masters, it is true, but as I am experienced and versatile, I will doubtless be taken up by some important earthly mage ere long.”
This brought more laughter, and Ecclesiastro waited for it to die down. “What else do you know about the Dark Gods?”
Elfloq, seduced by the limelight, then recited a number of stories that he claimed to have heard which involved the Dark Gods and of how they had defeated the armies of evil, on the Uttermoor, in Nyctath the All-Night and on Vyzandine, where the volcano god, Krogarth, had fallen. Not once did he mention the Voidal, but he made oblique references to a dark being. He said enough to convince the gathering that forces were at work to oppose the welling threat of nightmare.
“Well, you seem to have given us hope,” said Ecclesiastro, relieved.
After this there was much discussion, during which Elfloq was able to hustle Orgoom away from the centre of things and back up to a lofty, secluded branch. “You have said all you need to say,” whispered the familiar. “And we have both paid our dues for what we have learned. No one will deny us that.”
“Little value,” grunted Orgoom disconsolately.
“You are mistaken. Priceless,” avowed Elfloq.
“I go now. Find new life. You promised me good future. Where?”
“Ah, yes, that I did. Well, things may not be so easy now, my friend, in v
iew of the tumultuous things we have heard. The omniverse in upheaval! No one may now retire to a peaceful place. No such place will exist soon. No — you need a master, someone to give you causes to follow, causes that will help to hold back this onset of nightmare.”
Orgoom frowned suspiciously. “You will select him?”
“Perhaps. But let us leave here before we discuss such a delicate matter. It is not a thing we are obliged to share. Give nothing away without payment. Vital rule.”
Orgoom was grumbling again, not entirely at ease in the company of the wily familiar, who now seemed to be a cauldron of contradictions. But they flew out of the giant egg and back across the astral wilderness.
When they at last found somewhere discreet to rest, Elfloq spoke again. “There are wise men who say that everything, every grain of dust, has its appointed place in the scheme of things, even the humblest of familiars, the meekest of Gelders. Others say that it is for each thing to make a place for itself. How do you view such things, Orgoom?”
Orgoom merely shrugged.
Elfloq went on thoughtfully. “You see, I was not content to be an object placed here and there by the whim of others. I, by certain actions not outside my own influence, have, like yourself, won a degree of independent motion. But I am not powerful. Only with power can a thing move for itself. So proximity to power is of the essence. True? Well, I do have a master. He is elusive, as I said before, but he holds a key to power. Colossal power. You, yourself, have felt it like a wave passing, for your path and his have already crossed.”
Orgoom merely scowled deeper, framing a hideous visage.
“The dark man you met on Verdanniel’s world. He is the Voidal.”
“He is your master?”
“Yes! I must find him. Now more than ever. You can help me. It is vital.”
“Why?”
“If you do, I will see to it that the dark man takes you into his service, as he did me. He will not be able to refuse such a thing.”
“Why?”
“Why? With the entire omniverse in turmoil! We all need to stand by the strongest. And did my master not better Ubeggi? It was my master of whom I spoke to the Council, though not by name. No name is more accursed than his. Yet it was he who has thrown down so many evil powers, albeit at the behest of the Dark Gods, who use him as their instrument. Where else could you find such power?”
Orgoom murmured something unhappily. There was to be no peace for him after all. He recalled the dark man, who had terrified him, in spite of his sense of justice, his sympathy for Verdanniel.
Elfloq was peering out at the astral mist. That brooding cosmic shadow of earlier remained. It could not be long before it made itself manifest and left some painful claw mark etched on the physical fabric of the omniverse. “So, are you with me?” he asked the Gelder.
Orgoom shrugged once more, resembling a waif far from home. “I follow.”
Elfloq grinned. “Follow? No, not this time. You must lead. If we are to find the dark man, we will have to pick up the twisted threads of his life where you left it.”
“Verdanniel?”
“No. I have a feeling, and it is a very positive feeling, that Ubeggi will be searching for the Voidal. Probably watching him.”
“So?”
“Forgive me, but if we can find the Weaver, we can find my master.”
Orgoom let out a hiss of terror. “The Weaver! Madness. Seek him? I want many universes between us!”
“Come, come,” said Elfloq. “The path to power is not strewn with flowers! Be bold, as I am.” He was quite beside himself with fear, but as on numerous occasions before in his life, determination somehow got the better of it, though in this instance it was by the narrowest of margins.
“Go to Ubeggi?” Orgoom was repeating to himself, shaking his head.
“I don’t mean openly,” snorted Elfloq. “There must be secret ways. Somewhere where we could sneak in and steal the odd conversation, clues to what we seek.”
Orgoom sniffed. “If we are caught, the suffering would be unimaginable.”
“I would rather not dwell on that.”
But the Gelder seemed suddenly to have made the first momentous decision of his life. “Secret ways. Maybe. Ubeggi took from me my manhood, made me a Gelder. He owes me something for that. So — we go to him!”
Elfloq’s ugly grin widened. “Just so.”
“I will find Tyrandire, the Palace of Pain.”
Elfloq winced at the reference. But he preened himself, delighted. Fortunately it did not seem as though it would be too difficult to manipulate the Gelder. But as they flew upwards into the astral heights once more, Elfloq wondered just how rudderless Orgoom was, and what dark powers might, after all, be moving him across their celestial board.
PART THREE: ADRIFT IN DELIRIUM
I have written before, in my history of the dark man, of tapestries and the weaving thereof. There is a skill required for the undertaking of this highest of art forms that the gods constantly seek to perfect.
Fate is a complex subject, and where several powers weave their own unique creations, inter-weaving or crossing over the destinies of lesser creatures, considerable care has to be taken in the working. Enmeshing several tapestries requires a singular purpose, a unified approach. The results of such fusion can be extraordinarily vivid, dazzling and enlightening, enriching the omniverse.
But the gods often tend to work for themselves, regardless of each other’s efforts.
This results in confusion and there are dangers, as any weaver or indeed, artist worth his paint pots would explain. To mix all colours results in no colour at all, a final darkness, the ultimate colourless mass.
Inevitably, there are forces at work that strive for such a Lightless state of affairs.
—Salecco, great believer in the concept of one loom at a time
Those who travel the astral realms usually do so alone, hurrying diligently at the beck and call of their masters, or flitting furtively among shadows, prowling or lurking, dashing guiltily, or gliding in secret silence. No one travels openly or innocently, at least, they do so under extremely rare circumstances. Of course, the astral realms thrive on chance meetings, passing discourses and apparently random conferences. Gossip here is as common as the mist: indeed, some say it is the mortar that binds the astral. There are recognised meeting places, mostly well known, frequented like bustling markets, as with the Gossipers’ Council. But for one to travel in company, although not unheard of, is usually considered burdensome and inexpedient.
Stranger still, therefore, that an astral frequenter such as the wily Elfloq — such a singularly independent familiar — should wander the astral murk in the company of another being. Even stranger, that this other should be a reticent Blue Gelder of uncharming mien and surly temperament. But so it was. However, it must be added that although the two squat figures crossed astral distances in company with each other, they did not do so in harmony.
Orgoom, the Gelder, had actually become quite animated for one so habitually taciturn and glum. He was flexing the hitherto atrophied wings of his own independence, metaphorically speaking (as he did not possess physical wings). Annoyance had goaded him from his shell (a similarly metaphorical attribute). Annoyance that had become anger and at length, heated wrath. Elfloq’s remonstrations added to the flames of the quarrel, threatening to make a pyre of their recent companionship.
“Can’t find Tyrandire without help!” snapped Orgoom for the dozenth time. He had resigned himself to returning to Ubeggi’s grim stronghold, in spite of hideous misgivings.
“Quite so,” whined Elfloq. “But is it absolutely necessary for us to visit Mindsulk? No other place in all the many dimensions can sport such a concentration of beings who would delight in doing me harm of the most painful kind.”
“For me also. But Mindsulk full of Gelders. News of Ubeggi. You want to find Tyrandire. Then Mindsulk first.” Orgoom spat loudly, a habit that he was perfecting, implying that nothing wo
uld change the veracity of his statement. Evidently he was growing impatient with the familiar. He was by no means bound to Elfloq, although it seemed to the Gelder that Elfloq possessed enough knowledge to win for them both positions of relative comfort and security in this capricious omniverse. The Gelder was, nevertheless, tempted to part company and travel on alone.
Elfloq sensed this as readily as if it had been shouted. “Orgoom, you are right, of course. I am a coward, though not without reason, but there it is. I must come to terms with it. So, lead on to Mindsulk. We must first cross the swamps of chance before we can sit on the isle of rewards.”
Orgoom snorted at this distorted poetical remark (a very loose rendering of a more classical piece) and forged on ahead now that the argument was at an end. Behind him Elfloq grimaced and gave a shudder or two. Mindsulk! Great Gods of the Earthbowels, what a sink of horrors. It was a bleak and remote place, a huge bastion of crags upon which a grotesque accumulation of buildings adhered as if they had been tossed there by some peevish god unable to satisfy his creative whims. These poor architectural rejects had soon become the welcome abodes of the dregs of the omniverse, where evil thrived and blasphemous plots abounded. Elfloq had had occasion to go there only very rarely and each time had been extremely fortunate to come away intact.
When they began to draw close to the obnoxious crags of Mindsulk, Elfloq insisted that they do something to disguise themselves, a course of action that readily appealed to Orgoom. The Gelder was all for Elfloq using a spell to give them different forms, but Elfloq rejected this outright, knowing that the dark magics of Mindsulk would strip such illusions bare and draw attention to them.
“Simplicity is the key,” he said. “We must procure ordinary rags. There are places at the edge of Mindsulk where we can do this. We won’t be questioned. There are more disguises in this place than an inn’s cat has fleas. Let us find the house of Witweave.”