by Adrian Cole
Orgoom gaped.
“Oh, yes,” said the Voidal softly. “The Dark Gods want this Asker to keep his secrets. The blow would have failed. And this Asker would have succumbed to madness, just as you did, Gelder.”
Vulparoon’s nerve broke. He passed out, slumping to the floor.
Elfloq looked even more appalled. The Voidal, seeing the familiar’s amazement, removed his glove calmly and held up his hand. “Flesh and blood, Elfloq. I recovered this from Krogarth and the Dark Gods have allowed me to keep it. What has happened here was not their work. My intervention was truly an act of defiance.”
“You hand is restored?”
“Yes,” said the dark man coolly. “Pass me the wine.” He took an open bottle from Elfloq and poured the contents over Vulparoon’s face. In a moment the Asker had spluttered awake.
“So you punish me after all!” he gasped.
“You torment yourself. You prefer madness to my questions. But I say again, who do the Dark Gods serve?”
Again Vulparoon demurred.
“Perhaps, if you truly desire madness, you would like to join Ybaggog in his bottled universe? I can arrange that for you.”
Vulparoon shook his head. “No! I will speak. I know only a small piece of the greater mysteries. The Dark Gods number Thirteen, as with their Seneschals. They have a Prime, an Ultimate. His will is their will, which is the will of the Seneschals and in turn, that of the Divine Askers.” He shrank back in the pool of spilled wine. His face had aged by a score of years.
The Voidal turned to Elfloq and Orgoom with a grim smile. “Then this Ultimate god is my true nemesis. His power against mine, when I have restored it all.”
For a moment Cloudway fell very silent, chilled by the words of the dark man, the terrible confidence that seemed to well up in him now.
The vacuum was at last filled by the quaking voice of Humble Jeddo, who had been momentarily forgotten. “An interesting revelation, masters. I have heard such things whispered in remote parts, but never thought it truth. An Ultimate god? No god could take upon himself such a mantle. Or so it seems to a meek creature such as myself. Well, enough of this. I must be leaving. I have to see a minor god (a very minor god, I now perceive) on Creeping Hagula.” He rose, with unusual ease, and the Voidal nodded to him.
“Keep that jar safely. Trade it for some worthwhile item. But leave the sliver of madness.” He indicated the metal that gleamed on the tabletop, which had evidently become yet another object of the pedlar’s desires.
Humble Jeddo pretended to be repulsed by it. Instead he bowed awkwardly and left them.
“What now, master?” said Elfloq at the Voidal’s side. “There must be other things the Asker can teach you.”
The Voidal shook his head. “No, Elfloq. He knows less than I. There were strange visions open to me in Ybaggog’s black universe. My memory retains them. The Dark Gods watch over the Asker. I will call him again when I have need of him. But we have other work.”
Elfloq masked his surprise at this newfound confidence in his master. It was more than a little unnerving. “What must I do?”
“There is a woman you must seek for me.”
Elfloq was clearly nonplussed. “Not — not —”
“She that we found among the lamias of Nyctath? No, I will not enter her life again,” said the dark man heavily. “She has suffered enough. There is another. You must find Scyllarza. I think she may hold the key to some of the things I now seek.”
Elfloq dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Your soul, master? The Sword of Shadows?”
The Voidal stared at him in mild amusement. “Possibly. Find her, Elfloq. Look on Alendar. I think she has powers that will strengthen me.”
“Are you truly your own master?”
“It would be foolish to assume it. You know that the Dark Gods are dangerous enemies. Vulparoon has sewn more than a few doubts in my mind with his interpretation of the fall of Ybaggog and the Weaver of Wars. But it is time for me to move against those who have cursed me for so long.”
Orgoom came forward. “I serve, master.”
“Yes, Orgoom. See Elfloq, the Gelder is faithful to our cause. You must help one another. Scour the astral for knowledge. Find Scyllarza. But you must both be wary. She has a servant named the Babbler. He will serve you foul.”
Orgoom instantly flashed his sickles. “I cut.”
The Voidal laughed. “No. Just be cautious. Find them! When you have done so, tell Scyllarza to invoke me. There will be no price.”
Neither familiar nor Gelder needed time to ponder this. They were glad to have a task to perform. With no more than brief glances at one another, they went out on to the astral.
The Voidal looked down at Vulparoon, still slumped on the floor, then beckoned Eye Patch to him.
“See that he does not leave here until I send for him.”
Eye Patch shrugged. “I cannot force him to remain.”
The Voidal retrieved the sliver of madness and slipped it inside his shirt. “A little of the madness that hovered about us here has seeped into him, I fear. But he will be safe in Cloudway. If you let him leave, he will fall prey to gods who will show him no mercy. They have never been kind to him. Spare him. Keep him here.”
Eye Patch nodded. “Until you send for him, then.”
Shortly after this exchange, the Voidal had departed.
Eye Patch began clearing away the last of the plates and wine bottles, cleaning down the tables. He saw the Asker get up and sit at a table, staring vacantly into space and heard snatches of his mutterings. “Darkness gathers,” the man in scarlet seemed to be repeating, over and over. Eye Patch would ask Vlod the Remover to see that no one harmed the Asker.
Other guests were already arriving.
PART SIX: AMONG THE BONES OF GIANTS
In matters of conflict, whether issues are resolved through debate, individual battle between two protagonists armed with swords or an all-out war between men or gods, the application of tactics and strategy plays a vital part.
And in the employment of these, honesty and openness do not necessarily bear the ripest fruit. Duplicity, deceit, mendacity — ah, these are more trustworthy devices. For example, in a fight between two swordsmen, it is not simply a case of one warrior hacking through the defence of the other. There are such ploys as feints and bluffs: one man may pretend to be wounded or exhausted.
The Dark Gods are as skilled in such methods as any other. Those who would deal with them are well advised to scrutinise each play of the cards, metaphorically speaking. Black may not be black at all, just as white may be purple.
Or blood red.
—Salecco, whose aversion to contests is based on the sound principles of self-preservation.
High up in the mountains, the Monastery of Tranquil Resolve perched precariously above treacherous crags and scree, a sea of cloud lapping at its walls and spilling over its windowless towers, the air thick with vapour, damp and chill. The tallest of the decaying turrets leaned precipitously out over the eon-scarred walls of the monastery; within it a bell tolled dolorously, disturbing the black-feathered birds that flapped around the intrusive buildings, voicing their raucous protest. Across the weeds of the central court, two figures hurried, eager to be out of the perpetual drizzling mist. The first was swathed in the dull grey robes and deep cowls of a Peace Monk, the second in the hooded cloak of an outsider from the lands below the mountains. They passed through a doorway and went down torchlit steps to where a small gathering of the Brotherhood awaited them. All eyes turned up to face the men, each face pasty with distress and fear.
One of them pointed to a bare table and whispered to the first man descending. “It is Brother Jeroba.”
“Dead?”
“Soon.”
The leading Peace Monk dismissed all the others with a wave of his white hand and in a moment was left alone with his companion and the stricken other. They dropped their cowls and went to the bare table on which the body was lying.
“Bring a torch,” said the first monk and in a moment he took it and held it up to see the face of the man called Jeroba. He leaned over the inert form, whose pained face was like carved wax. “Brother Jeroba — what is it?”
For a moment nothing happened, but then the eyes opened, burning and dazzling with the radiance of some strange inner madness. Strong hands snatched at the robes of the Peace Monk as Jeroba tried to drag himself upright. “The dawn of darkness is coming! Let the omniverse tremble!” gasped the strangled voice. The man sank down once more.
The Peace Monk shook him without apparent sympathy. “Jeroba!”
Again the eyes opened. “It is here. It is now. Evil Time. The Crimson Gate…must not open…” The voice trailed off in a last gasp, air being sucked out of the body, which now shrivelled. The eyes died, their light frozen to glass. Hell danced behind them.
“Is he dead?’ said the second man.
“Yes.” As they watched, the body began to shake wildly as if a wolf had hold of it. It began to contort itself horribly. The watchers both stepped back.
“Quickly,” said the first. “We must get out. Whatever has him may attack us.” They left the chamber and slammed its door, bolting it firmly. Behind them they could hear many voices, vile and tormenting, as if a pack of demons feasted.
“Brother Torruvas, what does this mean?” asked the second of the men, making no attempt to hide his deep shock.
“It is just as I feared. There have been signs for some time now. This is the last and strongest of them. There will be no more warnings. Seven Peace Monks have died, just as Jeroba has died. The plague that has taken them is over. Now the horror truly begins.” They were climbing another narrow stairway and in a moment had entered a frugal chamber where more torches flickered. Torruvas sat and waved the other to a bench opposite him.
“I brought you here for a purpose, Renegorn. I am calling in your family’s debt to the Peace Monks. We sheltered and fed them once, and healed their sick.”
“I understand my obligation. My father told me that one day I might be needed here. What horror is it that begins? What did Brother Jeroba mean? I could make no sense of his ranting. For three nights and days he has spewed forth such gibberish. Curses and damnations. Can you read anything into these ravings? I have travelled far to come here, just to listen to the delirium of a madman, or so it seems.”
“All this was promised,” sighed Torruvas. “Many years ago. Have your people not heard of the Evil Time?”
“In legends. Is it real?”
“When our world was a beautiful garden, long in her past, it was foretold that she would be visited by evil. This was so, for our masters took immense powers upon themselves and warred, bringing upon themselves evil such as had never been known before. The results of that blasphemous devastation surround us, a perpetual reminder of its magnitude. Its relics cover the world, monuments to the past. Yet there is a teaching preserved that tells of a second time of darkness, a true Evil Time. Evil will come again to our world and all worlds, folding the very omniverse in its coils. We of the Monastery of Tranquil Resolve have been watching for centuries. We know very little of the nature of this Evil Time, yet there have been signs. Brother Jeroba and the others are forerunners, all of them. They have looked upon the future and seen the Evil Time.”
“So what is to be done?”
“We are the last of our world’s protectors —”
Renegorn snorted. “Protectors! A few score Peace Monks? What powers do you have?”
Torruvas refused to be stung by the warrior’s outburst. “We have certain duties to perform. So do you and other men like you, whose families were once fed and nurtured by our ancestors and whose debt to us is now due.”
Renegorn shrugged. “I have no magical powers, nor do other men.”
“You are one of the Homeless, a wanderer from the Open Lands. But you have your codes, your laws. You must speak to the men of the empty places. If we are to stand against what comes, man cannot remain disparate.”
“What would you have me do?”
“You must guide me out in the Open Lands.”
“To where? There is nothing out there! Bare as your mountains are, it is no more frugal than the Open. Mankind is scattered like sand in the wind.” Renegorn laughed, but without humour.
“There is an oracle, which I must consult. From it I may learn something of the Evil Time and what must be done. You must guide me deep into the Steel Graveyard.”
“To what end?”
“To find a legend. Have you heard of the Bone Burrower?”
Renegorn smiled. “Yes, but he is not real, Brother! He is a story, an idea, a ghost invented to amuse. He is the spirit of the Steel Graveyard. But surely you know this.”
“Perhaps. But I must seek him. He is the oracle.”
Renegorn could see by the Peace Monk’s face that he was perfectly serious. “Cross the Steel Graveyard? It could take a lifetime! No one knows how far it spreads. It may cover a continent. Some say it ruptures other realms and is the tomb of other worlds besides this one. And I do know that it is almost impassable.”
“Nevertheless, we must try. This is how your debt must be paid.”
Renegorn scowled, but nodded. He was a man of honour, bound by duty. Among his scattered people, such things carried vast weight.
* * * *
They carried the broken corpse of Brother Jeroba to the walls of the monastery and gave it up to the night, for the rules of the Brotherhood were strict. None of the dead Peace Monks could remain within the walls. The last of them prayed as Jeroba’s wrapped body tumbled down into infinity. Soon afterwards, Brother Torruvas and Renegorn went deep down into the bowels of the rock on which the monastery stood and entered a chamber where horses were groomed. Everything had been prepared. The two men mounted and rode out on to a ledge that spanned the night, beginning the long ride down out of the mountains to the Open Lands and the interminable plain that was the start of the Steel Graveyard.
This infinite expanse of tangled metal was silent as the horses came down the last narrow canyon to its edge. Dawn began to unravel individual curves of metal from the mass, emphasising the features of those immense suits of armour, weapons and war machines that bloody chaos and then time had blended into this nightmare fusion. Huge steel gauntlets jabbed fingers up at the sun, hung from splintered bone accusingly, like mad towers. Early rays splashed like blood on the buckled sheets of steel, or daubed curved bones, some encased, others piled high in parody of statues. It was a landscape of fallen giants, incredible warriors who had clashed in their thousands and dashed themselves to oblivion against each other, waves breaking on a pitiless shore. It was a domain of death, as derelict as a city scourged by fire. Shattered skulls stared with hollow sockets in frozen agony as light began to seep down like a stranger into the tangle of knotted bone and armour. The shells of corpses clung together like mountains, heaped higher and higher as the men wove inwards.
Rust clouds filled the air as the breeze shifted and the men pulled tighter their scarves around their mouths and noses. Within the silent wreckage there yet seemed to hover a suggestion of fading energy, as though the innumerable corpses dreamed of the carnage that had been wrought here. But time was reducing this steel cemetery to compost, the blackened earth dragging into it every last bone, no matter how vast.
“You wish to cross this?” said Renegorn. “These were more than giants. Surely they were gods. I swear you could carve a city in some of these bones! Man does not belong here.”
“We must find its heart,” said Torruvas stoically.
“How? Death is all around us. A million bones and skulls testify to that. Nothing could live within this place. There is nothing to sustain life. The very earth is blighted, charred and blasted by whatever sorceries these armies flung at each other. There are no birds above us. They would fall with exhaustion before reaching the other side.”
“Yet you have travelled within it, have you not?”
Renegorn darted Torruvas a suspicious look. “As a boy, yes. We all did. But I was warned of its dangers. Collapsing bones, steel weapons that could rip you open if you as much as brush against them.”
“I think that you, of all men, know something of the Steel Graveyard’s labyrinth. There are men of the Open Lands who yet worship its fallen gods. I have no wish to intrude on their sacred ground, nor mock them. I seek only the oracle.”
Renegorn did not comment, leading them onwards and the two horses passed under a low arch of corroded steel, an immense javelin, its one end rammed deep into a forest of bones that had once been a chest. Occasionally they could hear the creak of settling steel or the twisted shriek of metal as it collapsed under the weight of what was piled above it. They had to let the horses go back after a while and the beasts were glad to return to the Open. Torruvas and his guide threaded their way upward, hands gloved as a precaution against the dangers of poison. It was midday before they had climbed high enough to get above the contorted tunnels that interlaced the heaped steel like the workings of maggots.
They walked along the ribbed spine of a titanic steel skeleton, levelled and now like a vast ship, emptied by unimaginable forces. Even up here it was difficult to move forward, for many of the bones and fragments of armour that clung like cerements were rotten, turning to powder at a touch. They hopped like fleas, while on all sides the bones piled ever higher, ranging like hills to the horizon, their curves broken only by jagged bone, lance or swords like denuded trees.
Renegorn called a halt and slumped, pulling his water bottle from his belt. “Have you much food? We will find nothing to kill in this place.”
“There will be food,” Torruvas smiled.
“You seem certain.” Or mad, thought Renegorn. “Food in this place?”
“You would not have come this far if you had not expected food.”
Renegorn nodded. “You are wise, Brother.”
“There are caches? Those who visit the secret shrines to the Fallen Gods would secrete food, I think.”