by Adrian Cole
“To plunge into the Voidal —”
“No. The game has become more complex. There is another that you must thrust it into. No god, nor demi-god, or wizard. A mortal. So your task should be a simple one.”
Shatterface laughed hollowly. “Is this a trick to torment me?”
“No. Ask no more. Take up the sword and I will tell you what must be done.”
Cautiously Shatterface lifted the weapon. “Nothing mortal can withstand me,” he told it, as if it were a living thing.
* * * *
The Babbler could not sleep, even though his beloved mistress had insisted that he should do so. He kept himself apart from the Gelder and that cunning familiar, neither of whom he could other than loathe. The dark man he yet hated keenly, for the intensity of his jealousy was boundless, though his mistress must be obeyed, for his love for her was equally as intense. He had always honoured Scyllarza. Ah, but she was besotted with this evil, black-clad monster. What powers did he tap? What evils did he seek to unleash? The Babbler could not settle. He crept about the rusting metal reaches of the fallen god like a wraith. He heard then the gentle laughter of his mistress and the soft voice of her lover. Silently he drew closer to where they had hidden themselves and he looked upon them, unseen.
They were locked in each other’s arms as one, speaking very low. As the Babbler watched, unable to tear himself away, he gasped at the transformation that was taking place. This must be an illusion! He told himself. For the Voidal was drawing the woman into himself, absorbing her. Like some vampiric demon, he was making Scyllarza one with himself. For a second, the image shifted and it was as if the man had been drawn into the woman. But slowly the shapes blurred until only the dark man remained. Aghast, the Babbler fled. In another moment he had taken to the astral, the limitless unknown of its expanse.
For a long time he let its grey light enfold him, aimless and bewildered. My mistress is overpowered and destroyed! he kept telling himself. This is how the Voidal has tricked us both! Scyllarza is already dead! All we have seen here is an image of her! But what is to be done? I could flee, but that would not be enough. She must be avenged. The Voidal must be destroyed, wiped away.
At last he smiled. He remembered Alendar. It was there that he had first thwarted the Voidal. He had learned the secret of the exorcism from the dying Crimson Priest, Eordred, and he had used it, cutting into the dark man the fatal rune and sending him back to the void. It could be done again. The Voidal would be wary of him. There was a better way. The warriors! There had been many of them. If the Babbler could find them, he could teach them the revocation and they could work it upon the dark man, perhaps even destroy him in the process.
At once the Babbler left the astral and came back to the decaying world, this time far from the stultifying carnage in the sea of mud. In the landscape that opened up around him now, there would be lights.
* * * *
Out of his dreams the dark man came like a swimmer struggling up a beach from the clutches of a heavy surf. There had been deep visions, fragments, all dislodged by the powers that were swirling within him, though more of the mysteries were taking on distinct hues, better focussed. The power was shifting, no longer as elusive as it had been.
Scyllarza stood beside him once more, gazing at the grey dawn. She pulled him closer to her. “We begin today?”
“It has to be. Out there in that wilderness, there are incalculably ancient shrines, places where Light is worshipped and has been since then dawn of this world, or whatever worlds have been fused to create it. It is in such places that evil is banished, so residues of power remain there, to be used. I will go to one of them. There I will call up the Thirteen.”
She was frowning: he saw this. “Your logic,” she breathed, in answer to his questioning look, “may be at fault. The Dark Gods have proclaimed you as the evil power. It may be that in these ancient shrines the powers will work against you and strengthen the Thirteen.”
The Voidal nodded. “Perhaps. But in my dreams I saw a certain hill, which I must find. They tried to obscure it from me, as if afraid I would reach it. I am certain they will defend it against my coming there. Why? What are they afraid of? They are gathering the scattered armies of this world, puny as they are, and have sent them to this place. I believe that if I win the hill, it will be a defeat for the Dark Gods.”
“Then let us find it. How will we know it?”
“Under its skin of grass and broken menhirs, it is comprised of a million skulls.”
* * * *
The Babbler climbed up into the coming dawn, muttering to himself, engorging his mind on the hate that seethed inside him. He was upon the warriors before he realised it: the hands that seized him and pinned him tore a shriek of terror from him.
“What vermin is this?” a man grunted, shaking the Babbler like a rat.
“Spare me! I bring you power! Power to destroy the evil that comes to your world!”
“Well, a prophet, is it?” one of the warriors laughed, his companions joining him.
“He stinks of the mire! Toss him back!”
“Wait!” cried the Babbler. “Kill me and you will all perish. I hold the key to your salvation.”
From out of the armed ranks came a cowled Peace Monk. He motioned the warriors to release their squirming captive and stood before him. “Who are you? What is this gibberish?”
“The dark man is coming,” said the Babbler and at once a curtain of silence came down.
The Peace Monk shuddered, crossing himself. “His name?”
“Voidal.”
“Then you are indeed a prophet.” He nodded at the men. “We must take him to Brother Torruvas. He has been expecting this.” The monk turned again to the Babbler. “You know how to revoke this creature?”
The Babbler cackled, nodding furiously. Warriors parted for him as horses were brought. He mounted up and the escort gathered, the Peace Monk leading. Quickly they raced over the hill and out of sight.
As they galloped down into a valley, preparing to cross a ford, a single figure stepped from the low trees ahead of them. Those leading the party were forced to reign in tightly.
“Stand aside!” called the monk. “We are on urgent business.”
For answer the tall figure swung a huge blade that sheared clean through the front legs of the monk’s horse, toppling the rider into the stream. Another chop from the sword near split the man in two. At once the dumbfounded warriors were leaping off their horses and all became chaos in the churned stream. The intruder swung his heavy weapon as if it were as light as a twig and began hewing a bloody path through men and beasts alike. The warriors rushed upon him in force. There were a dozen of them, but those that drove their own blades at the man’s body seemed to have no effect. The slaughter that followed was brief but terrible.
The Babbler, who had been unseated by his own panic-stricken steed, sprawled dazedly beside the stream, unable to comprehend what was happening. At last, with the remaining horses dashing away from the carnage at the ford, all became still. The Babbler found himself staring up in horror at the intruding warrior, whose head was encased in a terrible helm that obscured all of his face but the eyes. The warrior tossed away the blood-smeared sword: the Babbler thought that he must have been spared.
Shatterface drew from a black scabbard another blade, the Sword of Oblivion. The Babbler instinctively drew back in terror.
“What do you want of me?”
“Your secret, little man.”
“I will give it to you gladly! I will teach you how to revoke the Voidal. It is a simple thing —”
But the Sword of Oblivion ripped down and up, its point tearing free of the Babbler’s back. A single scream broke the restored silence and the eyes of the Babbler stared, huge orbs, seeing nothing, his mind wiped as clean as polished stone. Shatterface satisfied himself that the work was done and then turned away, sparing no more than a brief glance at the corpses strewn about him. He walked up the river a little and
in the brightening hues of dawn, removed his grim helm. When he at last bent to look at his reflection in the water, tears coursed down his remoulded cheeks, for staring back at him was the face he had once possessed, forgotten for millennia. He was restored.
Slipping into the trees, he hid himself, for there were riders coming. He watched as they inspected the dead warriors and heard their cries of alarm. Then they had wheeled away, ignoring the madman that sat by the river, babbling nonsense to himself and plucking uselessly at the hilt of the weapon protruding from his chest. Shatterface prepared to leave this world. He was content, but puzzled. Why had the Dark Gods denied the men of this world the power to revoke the Voidal? Why should they want the dark man to summon the Thirteen? But it was not for him to know. He was free, made whole, and the omniverse would reopen for him. Joyfully he went out into its infinity.
* * * *
“They come!” was the cry that reached the ears of Torruvas and Renegorn where they stood high on the walls of the crumbling temple that stood atop the holy place. Here, at this ancient shrine of power, they had assembled the army that had taken them months to gather, awaiting the arrival of the creature that the Bone Burrower had foretold would come.
“How many of them are there?” said Torruvas. “Are they legion?”
Renegorn shook his head. “I don’t understand. Reports say that there are only the four. The dark man, his familiars, and the woman. Her companion is not with her.”
They waited apprehensively, the army about them tensed for war. Soon, crossing the brow of one of the lower hills, they saw two horses and flying above them a diminutive figure. Below the walls, the massed warriors prepared to defend the temple, whatever the cost. Torruvas’s face paled. “Where is the one who is to help us? We do not have the secret of revocation, the means of sending this black crusader back to the darkness from which he came.”
Renegorn spat angrily. “Then we must fight. The blood of the gods of Light is in this hill. Its powers will give us strength.”
Torruvas did not respond, instead closing his eyes and praying.
Down in the valley, the Voidal reigned in his horse. Orgoom sat behind him, muttering about the discomforts of riding. Elfloq fluttered down from the sky, face twisted with anxiety. “I see a great host, master. Armed for war. We have arrived at a bad time. I fear we may be crushed between two forces.”
Scyllarza had drawn her sword. “Is this not the ancient hill you spoke of?”
The Voidal nodded. “I know that I have to stand on its crest and summon the Thirteen Seneschals from there. The temple means nothing to me. But that host is there for one reason, Elfloq. To defend the hill from me.”
“From, from you, master?” Elfloq gasped, appalled by the numbers surrounding the hill. There were several thousand warriors there.
“They seem to know that I want to climb the hill.”
“How are we to overcome them?” Scyllarza asked.
“I have no quarrel with them. I mean their world no harm. I will speak to their leaders,” said the dark man. He said it without fear, but clearly something troubled him. “Wait for me here.”
Orgoom dismounted and at once the Voidal was galloping up the steep incline towards the forces of Torruvas and Renegorn.
The Peace Monk saw the dark figure coming and drew back. This was no man that threatened them, he was certain. “Does he come to mock us?”
Renegorn grunted. “This waiting gnaws at me. I will go out and speak to this creature, demon or not.” Before he could be stopped, he had gone down into the temple and out to his men. He called together a few of his best warriors and they rode out with him to meet the Voidal, though they all writhed inwardly with fear. Moments later the dark man had pulled up no more than a few yards from the warriors.
“What army is this?” he called to them. “Why is it here?”
“You know that, I think,” replied Renegorn.
“Am I the one you are waiting for?”
“Why are you here?”
“It is given to me to perform an ancient ritual. Great evil threatens not only your world, but the entire omniverse. It gathers itself, coiling like a great serpent about its boundaries. I cannot leave here until I have fought with it. I must stand at the crest of that hill. I have no quarrel with your people. Let them stand aside and they will suffer no harm from me.”
“What is this ritual?” said Renegorn suspiciously.
“It will disperse the evil I have spoken of.”
“This hill is blessed by the powers of Light,” insisted Renegorn. “Do you serve them?”
The Voidal laughed softly. “I have been cast out into darkness, but I will return to the light. My quarrel is with gods, not men, warrior. Quickly, take your mortal troops away before hell breaks loose.”
Renegorn stood his ground. “My army draws upon the ancient powers locked in the hill. Do not underestimate that power.”
The Voidal sighed. “I assure you, I do not. I have no wish to harm your men, but they mean nothing to me, or the gods. I will show you.” He pointed to the uppermost tower of the temple and said something quietly. In a moment the upper bricks of the tower began to tilt, heating up and melting until they ran in great globules of molten stone, slithering down into the temple courtyard, congealing like wax. Half the tower sagged in this way, clotted like mud in a matter of moments. Within the temple there were shouts of horror.
“I ask you again,” said the Voidal. “Will you leave? I will wipe away your men if I have to. Don’t make me do this.”
Renegorn was visibly shaken. What could he do against this horrific power? Even the Peace Monks could do nothing and whatever forces the hill possessed seemed to have been powerless against the destruction of the tower.
“There is another way to resolve this,” said the dark man.
“How?”
“The forces of evil will try to destroy me. Your armies and the power of the hill combined with my own power would aid me to destroy them.”
Renegorn grimaced. “Help you? This is a trick!”
He heard hoofbeats behind him and in a moment turned to see Brother Torruvas reigning in. “Do not listen to him!” the Peace Monk called. “He is our enemy.”
The Voidal rode closer and drew back the shirt of nightweb from his chest. “Here — plunge your weapons into me. Strike me. Do what you will. I cannot die. I have been cursed with immortality.”
Torruvas steadied his horse, which seemed unnerved by the presence of the dark man. “You can be revoked.” He could see that his words had puzzled the Voidal. “Yes, it is so. You fear something. And I have that power, dark man. I can send you back to your darkness.”
A deep silence fell over them all like a cloud. There was a mystery here that the Voidal did not understand. His dreams had not revealed it to him, though part of it shone through the veil. Something else broke into the thoughts of all the gathered company, for they heard strange mutterings and mumblings and saw movement on the slopes below them. It was the hunched figure of the Babbler, staggering along with the blade still in him. The Voidal watched the little man as he disappeared from view, baffled by him. In his mind he saw again his first meeting with the Babbler, on Alendar, recalling at last that it had been he who had betrayed him, cutting the rune into his flesh and sending him back to the void. And now he had given the secret to these monks! But — who had plunged that blade into him? The Babbler was dying, but by who’s hand?
No one moved towards the fallen figure. The Voidal pointed again to the temple. “You must choose. Either I destroy your temple, or we use it against what comes.”
“Why are you opposed to the coming evil?” said Torruvas. “Why do you not seek to rule it, or at least, serve it?”
Before the Voidal could speak, there was a rush of darkness and a boiling of the skies. Something of their unnatural gloom pressed down towards the earth. A great shape had formed itself on the hillside, as though the dark man had already begun his invocation of the powers of
night. He, however, recognised the pulsing spectre that reared up, clothed in shadows. He urged his elemental steed towards it before anyone else had moved, shouting defiance at it. There followed a deafening clap of thunder and the darkness funnelled upwards at unnatural speed, something flashing in its nebulous embrace as it went. On the dry grass of the hill, the broken body of the Babbler lay, wrapped in sunlight as the premature night retracted its clouds.
Behind the dark man, the mounted warriors edged forward, though none of them understood what had happened. Perhaps, they thought, the spirit of the broken man had ascended. Some had seen the gleaming of something as it rose. The Voidal, however, knew instinctively who had appeared. It had been Xatrovul. One of the Thirteen Seneschals, he who had charge of the Sword of Oblivion. What could he have wanted with the Babbler?
“Who is this man?” demanded Torruvas, pointing to the Babbler’s corpse.
“One of your servants?” Renegorn asked the dark man.
“He was,” nodded the Voidal. “Did you not see the darkness claim him? Already that evil seeks to bring me down, through my servants.” And with him, deduced the Voidal, went the secret of my revocation! Then the Dark Gods want me here. He turned to the Peace Monk. “Again I say, you must choose. Either take all your people far away to safety, or stay and aid me. There will be terrible things seen here. Some will bring madness upon you. I do not want that.”
“We are here to oppose evil,” said Torruvas. How am I to decide? He asked himself. The Bone Burrower said this dark man had the power to save us or damn us. Yet the mad island god, Dreamwarp, had wanted him revoked. Had Dreamwarp been one of the evil powers that wanted the Voidal destroyed? It was true that the coming of the dark man heralded the Evil Time, but was he here to stand against it? Did he intend to open the Crimson Gate that the legends referred to?
“If you think that I am the vessel of this evil you so fear,” the Voidal told Torruvas, “then revoke me now.”