The Grimoire of Yule (The Shadows of Legend Book 1)

by Adam Golden

  The wizard shook off the thought, he wouldn’t think on failure. Not now. The creature had found what he sought, that was what mattered. At a gesture, the frozen bodies of the dead, the snow and loose rock, and every other obstruction, was pushed away in every direction. A circle of grey rock stood scoured clean all around the wizard as one by one the bodies of the frozen dead burst alight like pitch-soaked torches, bathing the whole area foul smelling greasy smoke and dirty illumination.

  None of the small group of figures still standing so much as twitched at the gruesome display. They were beyond such now. If any trace of the feeling he’d once had for his men remained in Belsnickel’s punctured heart, it was buried deep. The bronze armored giant’s great helmed head never so much as turned to look at the scene, and the others arrayed before him had eyes only for their master. Eight sets of cold empty eyes waited, watching and utterly impassive. Their universes had been winnowed of concern, distilled down to the stillness before a command, and the driving need to fulfill such commands once they were issued. They were even simpler work than the Prancer creature had been. Near mindless soldiers, still clad in whatever bits of Northman armor and bearing the weapons they’d had when the wizard’s raiders took them. They were poor tools to be sure, but infinitely more resilient and tractable than mere humans.

  The wizard studied the narrow gash of the cave mouth carefully. It didn’t look like the entrance to a mystical kingdom of legendary creatures, he reflected. If this were a story, it would have been an imposing archway of dressed stone carved with occult runes and guarded by a magical door or some terrible gatekeeper. In reality, the cave of Tunit lore was an irregular black fissure in the living rock of the ground, a narrow vent for the steady stream of hot steam that rose out of it. It had the feel of a chink in the armor of the mountain. This was it! This was how the ancient Tunit had breached the White Woman’s keep. He knew it was.

  His eyes flicked closed as he reached out, probing the black crack in the earth with his power. His shadow stretched, oozing hungrily toward the fissure. The feeling of this place was different. That wondrous pulse of power, the hum that he’d come to expect from this frozen dead place was irregular, erratic, as though it were straining.

  Nicholas’ shadow snapped back toward him, rocking the wizard back two full steps. His head rang like a bell and pale yellow halos exploded before his eyes. There was a trap here . . . some sort of snare. As his shadow essence reached toward the fissure, something reached back. Something empty yet powerful. The sorcerer didn’t know how else to think of it. There had been nothing there, nothing, and yet . . .

  “Go,” he commanded.

  His captain started forward and Nicholas raised a hand, ignoring its slight but present tremble.

  “Not you, send another,” the wizard commanded.

  The giant’s helmeted head turned toward Prancer, its bronze-clad arm raising to point at the fissure. The much smaller revenant’s bone club swung down off its shoulder and thudded dully as it came to rest before him. It rested both of its pale, delicate hands on the end of the club before it and stood as still as the mountain itself. The growl that bubbled out of Belsnickel’s elaborate helm would have turned a man’s blood to ice, had there been any men there to hear.

  “Enough,” the wizard commanded. The power struggle between the two strongest of his servants would see they stayed attentive to their tasks, but this was not the time for their posturing. He pointed toward the others without looking. “Go.”

  One of the eight remade Northmen peeled off the group and loped toward the chasm mouth with the easy dangerous grace of a hunting cat. It’s easy stride never wavered as it reached the edge and plummeted into the crack. The wizard waited anxiously for what seemed like an age and turned questioning eyes to his captain. Unlike Prancer, the others had been tied into their captain’s will. He knew their minds as well as his own and could command them from any distance. The big creature’s armored head shook. Nothing.

  Frustration rose in the sorcerer. He felt the tide of reckless impulse surging inside him, a legacy of the primal animal. He wouldn’t be denied! Not now.

  Beneath the heavy crimson cloak he squared his shoulders. Perhaps this was folly, part of him reasoned, perhaps there was another way, some spell or incantation I could work. There was an altar prepared back at the camp . . . No! No more steps backward, no more retreats. How many indignities, frustrations, and betrayals must he endure? No more! The wizard threw back his fur-lined hood and surged forward, his creatures forming an armed and armored wedge before him. Victory or destruction, the time for half measures was at an end.

  “I’ll have your power, witch!” the sorcerer snarled as he dropped into the crevice.

  As if in answer, the ground jerked like a man struck. It pitched and heaved like a storm-tossed ship. High above, a crack like a thunderclap sounded as a sheet of rock hard ice let go of its hold on the mountain and tumbled toward the invaders. The dome of heat that held back the storm shattered like spun sugar as a thousand tons of ice and rock slammed into the ground, burying the crevice, the bodies, and every trace that anything had ever been there. The only sound was the howling of the wind, a howling that more than suggested the sharp ring of feminine laughter.

  A Madness Less Discreet

  “Quiet!”

  Crios bit down on his quivering lip and tried to keep the panicked whimpering inside as his grandfather shuffled before him, dragging him through the madness that had been their village. He could be brave. He could!

  “Now boy, now we go. Hurry!” The old man’s voice, usually so calm, so certain, sounded strange. It was too fast, too sharp. It sounded rushed or . . . afraid?

  Could his grandfather be as frightened as he was? The thought made Crios want to whimper again. The old man had fished the deepest parts of their sea, outraced and outfought pirates a hundred times, and even survived the squalls that battered the rocky coast of their island every summer. He’d told Crios all the stories until the boy knew them by heart. He was the bravest, strongest, and cleverest man Crios knew. Surely he wasn’t afraid of anything? Then why was he gripping Crios’ wrist so tightly, and the tremor he felt through that grip . . . Was the old man shaking?

  “Papu?” Crios asked, his voice leaking out in a quavering squeak. “Papu, where are we going? What’s happening?”

  The old man’s iron grip clamped down even harder on his wrist, and Crios winced. “Quietly boy!” the old man snapped. “They won’t find us, not if we’re quick, quick and quiet. Once we’re aboard Adoni we’ll go . . . we’ll go . . .” The old man’s voice trailed off and he gave Crios’ arm another firm tug to keep him moving.

  Adoni, of course, Crios should have guessed they’d be heading to the docks. Mama always said that Papu was most comfortable at sea.

  Mama.

  His chest suddenly tightened as he thought of his mama and abba, of his brother, Itylus and little Alala. Papu said they were gone. How could they just be gone? Where had they gone? Why had Papu and he not gone with them?

  The old man stopped suddenly. Crios collided with his back, and stumbled backward. His Papu’s chest was heaving, his eyes darted, flitting this way and that like a panicked hummingbird. Why had they stopped? The old man said not to stop, never to stop, no matter what. Now he just stood there, rigid and panting. What was going on?

  Crios strained to see around his grandfather. Something wet plopped onto the boy’s bare shoulder from above. He wiped at it with his fingers, cleaning them on his tunic without thinking as he forced his head under his grandfather’s arm to look before them.

  The alley mouth, that should have been mere paces before them, was gone. The squat stone and plaster buildings that lined either side of the narrow pathway, no different than dozens of others that made up the entirety of their little village, had melted.

  That was the only word Crois could think to describe what he saw. The two buildings that bracketed the spot where the alley should have let out had . . .
softened somehow and toppled together, melding as though they were made of warmed wax.

  Another thick wet plop landed heavily on Crios’ shoulder. The boy raised his hand to wipe the sticky ooze away and winced as his fingertips scraped his skin, it felt like the teeth of a rasp. He pulled back his hand and stared at it in horror. The first three fingers on his right hand were a rough, mottled grey above the first knuckle. They were rigid and fused together. His fingers had turned to stone! What? How? Another heavy drop landed on his shoulder and the boy’s eyes were pulled from his disfigured hand upward.

  “Papu, run!” the boy shrieked.

  Laborious waterfalls of liquid stone and plaster bled down the alley from above. The ancient hard-packed lane with its uneven, jutting bits of cobble strewn everywhere, squelched and slid, sucking at their feet like thick mud. It couldn’t be, not even the hardest of the summer rains softened these sunbaked lanes, and yet Crios’ sandaled feet slipped and skidded with every step. Struggling for traction, the boy hauled at the old man’s hand with all the strength his little frame could muster. The rising sludge of a dozen melting homes clung at his ankles and calves, threatening to drag him down. Beads of wet molten stone fell faster and faster, landing with more force and greater weight on his back and head.

  “Papu, we must run! Papu please!” the boy shrieked, dragging at the old man as the rain of clinging wet stone dragged at him, hardening on his skin.

  Panicked, confused tears flowed freely down the boy’s face. He wailed angry, helpless wails as he staggered back the way they’d come. This was madness, a nightmare. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mama.

  A sharp panicked yelp burst from the boy as he was dragged backward off his feet and landed in a heap at his grandfather’s feet.

  “Papu . . .” Crios started, pulling at the old man’s hand again.

  The words died with a strangled gasp of horror as he saw. His grandfather stood almost a foot shorter than he should have. The boy was almost level with the old man’s throat now. The aged sailor’s sinewy powerful legs ended halfway down his calves, and where his lower legs and feet should have been, there was only dusty ground. He’d sunk into the solid ground as though it were grasping mud and now stood rooted as firmly as any tree.

  “Papu . . . no. Please,” Crios begged, still pulling at the old man’s arm.

  Crios clutched the old man’s strong, rough hand in both of his, pulling hopelessly at the last piece of his family. Floods of tears poured down the boy’s cheeks, thick ropes of slimy snot hung from his face, and every breath came out in a rush that was half shriek and half moan. He couldn’t lose Papu, he was all that was left, the last thing that made sense.

  “Go . . .”

  It came out more an agonized croak than a word. The old man’s stiff, rigid body hummed and shook with the effort the word had cost him. Crios shook his head stubbornly, cleaving to his grandfather’s quivering hand. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Where would he go? He would never get to Adoni now, and even if he could, he couldn’t sail her himself. Besides, if the ground itself couldn’t be trusted to stay solid, what hope was there of escape? For all he knew the sea had dried up, or was made of rolling waves of sludgy stone, or burned like fire and had already consumed Adoni’s wooden hull. This was all too crazy! A shadow passed over him and the boy cringed and whimpered.

  What now?

  His eyes screwed tightly shut, his chin pulled down tight against his chest, and he quivered with naked dread as he clutched his grandfather’s rigid hand. It would be some new horror, some nightmare brought to life to torture him, to take something else away. He wouldn’t look, he couldn’t look.

  “Please . . . please . . . please . . .”

  The quavering chant poured out as thoughtlessly as the tears streaming down his adolescent face. He didn’t know what he was pleading for . . . mercy? Sanity? An end, any end? The high barking squawk of a gull rang out and lungs filled to bursting released their spent load in an exaggerated whoosh of relief. A seagull! It was just a seagull.

  Crios’ eyes popped open, there, above him and to his left a mottled white and brown seabird looking down on him. It perched atop a building which didn’t seem to be melting at the moment, head cocked to the side, staring at him as though at something it had never seen before. The sound of laughter made the boy jump. It was soft, strange, a high-pitched, joyless, frantic sound. It was, he realized belatedly, coming from him. His head spun. He was dizzy, everything tilted, and his view of the bird slid away. Everything went fuzzy, then squawk!

  The boy started, his body stiff and his eyes grainy. He blinked a few times and tried to focus. Overhead was blue and bright—the sky. Shadows, blurry little figures swooped and dove, crying out their high shrill caws. Gulls and ospreys—seabirds. Somewhere the slow lethargic sloshing of calm waters lapping at the shore could be heard. A relieved sigh leaked out the boy’s lips at the symphony of sounds, normal sounds. What a nightmare . . . such insanity. He must have fallen asleep at the beach. No doubt. Mama and little Alala would be playing in the surf while Father and Itylus raced to see who could swim out the jutting bit of rock offshore that sailors called ‘the mermaid’s tail’ the fastest. Maybe Papu would tell him the story about the pirates off the coast of Africa again and help him gather shells.

  “Papu?” Crios called, straining to work the stiffness out of his neck.

  He must have fallen asleep in some strange position, he was nearly too stiff to move. A sharp kink shot up the side of his neck as he tried to turn his head.

  A shadow moved over his face, and somewhere, a large collection of birds cried frantically. Dozens, maybe scores of the shrill birds screamed their piercing warning cries. Crios flinched at the cacophony, so loud, so panicked. Why? The boy’s blurry eyes refused to focus on the shadow. At first, he thought it was a man, not as big as his abba . . .

  “Papu?” he called out, his voice drowned by the legion of wailing seabirds. He put his hands down and pushed himself to a sitting position, but his legs were too tingly to stand.

  “Papu, will you help . . .” he started, but the words died on his tongue as his eyes cleared enough for him to see.

  Thousands of seabirds gathered around him, perched on the ruined slumps of slag that had been his village’s buildings, or on the roofs of those few which stood curiously untouched. Herons, gulls, cormorants, ospreys, every kind of bird he knew, maybe every seabird there was, and standing in their midst was the spare, slimy strong form he knew so well. The form of his Papu. The old man had his back to Crios and seemed to be standing unconcerned amidst the unnatural flock.

  “Papu!” Crios called.

  At the sound of his voice the legion of waterfowl exploded into a hurricane of noise and movement so wild and violent the rush of wings and cacophony of squawks buffeted at him like physical blows. The boy brought his arms up to protect his face as birds collided with him from every angle. Talons ripped at his arms, beaks pecked at his neck and face, and when he opened his mouth to scream, wads of loose feathers and bloody avian flesh filled it. Bird blood, feathers, and stomach acid rocketed up from the boy’s stomach. He retched loudly, his body rocked and spasmed violently, and his thin arms flailed at any bird close enough to reach.

  “Help me!” he screamed at his grandfather’s back.

  The old man turned, or some of him did. Papu’s torso twisted on his hips, as though flesh and bone were no more than putty, so that the top half of him faced back while the bottom remained forward. The old man’s skin, hair, and clothing were all the unbroken dusty brown of the stone that made the island, lined and seamed with cracks, pits and fissures and his face. His grandfather’s bluff, craggy face froze in a rictus of dread. His eyes were wider than should have been possible, his mouth frozen in a scream. It was as though some mad genius of a sculptor had crafted a monument to the most dreadful moment of his beloved elder’s life and then brought it to life by som
e dark sorcery.

  A gull collided full force with the side of Crios’ head and the boy fell sideways. He struck out at another and another and tried to force himself back upward. A cloud of feathers and flesh obscured his sight of the old man.

  “Papu!” he called, hopelessly.

  There he found the ruined old man’s form again, and wished he hadn’t. As Crios watched, a screeching osprey collided with the old man’s back and the force of its flight drove the poor crazed creature through the old man’s chest, or nearly through. The wild-eyed seabird screamed madly. It flailed, its body twitching as it struggled, half-buried in the gelatinous mire of the old man’s chest, as though it were buried in quicksand.

  There was no more in him to heave up, no more tears to cry. The numb boy’s hands searched the ground around him blindly as his eyes stayed locked on that struggling, scrambling bird being choked to death inside his grandfather’s chest. His hand closed on a piece of stone that was still hard, an uneven chunk of stone twice the size of his closed fist. He took a long deep shuddering breath.

  “I love you Papu,” the little boy squeaked.

  He griped the heavy stone hard, channeled the last of his strength into his trembling arm, and struck. Darkness fell as the boy’s ruined body went limp and the bloody hunk of solid stone rolled out of the boy’s lifeless hand and sank into the softening earth. Predatory seabirds fell on him from every side, battling savagely for primacy of place, and covering his devastated form like flies on a midden.

  —

  Maelstrom’s endlessly shifting form twisted and writhed in the blending ichor of air, sea, and land which had been a chain of small islands in a place called Greece. Now it was nowhere and everywhere, freed from the shackles of definition. Reality puddled and pulsed around the avatar of Chaos, remade and reborn without the false divisions and distinctions forced on it by the petty whims of Order. The angel of madness gloried in its growing strength and lamented the ease with which the false boundaries of harmony were brushed aside, both with equal strength. The liberating grasp of discord was closing around the throat of existence like a noose, and the death spasms of regularity sent twin pulses of orgasmic pleasure and hideous pain through the conflicted monster. Magic, the paper shield of the enemy, was dying, a curling, rotting husk of what it had been.