Hazel considered the possibilities of Blood Runners with Maze powers, and her blood ran cold. She surged up against the leather straps holding her down, channeling all her will into calling up her boost, and sudden new strength flooded through her. Fear and desperation can do much to clear even the most clouded of minds. The leather straps held, but the buckles gave way, the metal ripping through the leather as Hazel’s more than human strength blazed up in her. She sat up quickly, throwing aside the loosened straps, and jumped down from the trolley, careful to put it between her and Scour. Her legs were only unsteady for a moment. Her mind was crystal clear, and already working furiously on how to get past Scour to the only exit from the chamber. Her hands dropped automatically to her sides, but her guns and her sword were gone, of course. It didn’t matter. She was boosting, and strong enough and mad enough to handle one scrawny Blood Runner. She pushed the trolley aside.
Scour hadn’t moved an inch, his face entirely unmoved. “Get back on the trolley, Hazel. There’s nowhere you can go. Your life is over; your destiny ends here, with us.”
“Cram it,” said Hazel. “I’ll see every one of you dead before I let you lay one finger on me. Even if I have to dismantle you one at a time with my bare hands. Now, you can either show me the way out of this hellhole, or I’ll start with you.”
“There is no way out. This is all there is. And you’re not going anywhere.”
Scour raised a pale hand, and a shimmering force field sprang up between him and Hazel. It moved slowly toward her, spitting and crackling, and she backed uneasily away. A similar energy field had brought her all the way here from Lachrymae Christi. She tried to make a dart for the open doorway, but another force field appeared out of nowhere to block her way. It advanced on her too, and Hazel backed away again, looking quickly about her. In her boosted state she was potentially very fast on her feet, but there just wasn’t enough room to build up any speed. The two crackling energy fields hemmed her in, and herded her back to the trolley. Hazel dropped out of boost. No point in burning up what little strength she had left. Scour smiled at her.
“This is our world, Hazel, our place, and we are very powerful here. Now, be a good little lab specimen, and lie back down on the trolley, and we can make a start on your long journey into pain and self-knowledge.”
He held up one pale hand, and there was something shiny in it. Shiny and sharp. A scalpel.
“We’re going to have such fun together, Hazel.”
“That’s enough, Scour,” said a new rough voice from the doorway. “This was not agreed. She belongs to all of us.”
Hazel looked quickly around, hoping against hope for a last-minute rescue, or at least a breathing space. A second Blood Runner was standing in the open doorway, his left hand held up in protest or warning. Two of the headless bodies stood behind him, muscular arms crossed over their immense chests. Scour scowled at the newcomer.
“Still afraid to travel anywhere without your body-guards, Lament. It was decided that Hazel d‘Ark should be placed into my hands, that I should have first access to the mysteries of her flesh. I have the most experience in these matters.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Lament. “And not all of us agreed with that decision. You are too secretive, Scour. You keep too many things to yourself, these days. The secrets contained in Hazel d‘Ark’s mind and body are too precious, too important to us all, to be trusted only to you. I speak for many. Do not defy us.”
“I have allies too, Lament.” The dry, rough voice was cracking with anger, but still little more than a whisper. “There are many who owe me favors. Many who would come when I called.”
“But are you ready to risk open war in the corridors, Scour? Many of us are. Hazel d‘Ark could be the key that finally opens our long delayed potential. With what we learn from her, we could become gods of the whole Empire, rather than just this place.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” said Hazel. “If I was just offered a little civilized consideration, I might well cooperate with what you want.”
“I doubt that,” said Lament, looking directly at her for the first time, his eyes as cold as Scour’s. “Not with what we intend to do to you.”
“What do you want, Lament?” said Scour.
“There is a gathering at the Summerstone. All the Blood Runners. We want Hazel d‘Ark brought to the Summerstone, to see what effect it has on her, and her on it.”
“That’s dangerous,” said Scour immediately. “Too many unknowns. Too much out of our control. What if she regains her full powers?”
“What if she does? She is one, and we are many, and this is our place of power. Nothing happens here without our consent. You know that.”
“True. Very well. She goes to the Summerstone.” Scour turned his bloodred eyes on Hazel, and she had to fight down an instinctive need to fall back a pace. “If nothing else, it should be interesting to see what you make of the Summerstone. And what it makes of you.”
In a stone hall that seemed to stretch away on all sides forever, the Blood Runners were dancing. Their long robes flapped and swayed as they stamped and strutted and pirouetted around the great standing stone. There were maybe a hundred of them, all told, weaving in to and away from one another without ever once connecting or colliding. They moved quickly, confidently, through endless measures of a complicated pattern Hazel couldn’t even comprehend, let alone follow; driven by an energy that pushed them to their limits.
Hazel stood to one side, her arms held firmly by two of Scour’s headless bodies. She didn’t even bother to try to fight them. Scour and Lament had joined the dance the moment they arrived, almost as though pulled in against their will, and were now lost to her; just two more willowy albinos stamping their pale feet on the gray stone floor. There was no music, only the rhythm of hammering feet on the floor, and the Blood Runners’ fast, frantic breathing. Their eyes were wide and staring, lost in the grip of some inner song, some violent siren call to which only they were privy. Hazel turned her attention to the great standing stone, expecting it to have the impact it had manifested in Scour’s image, but to her disappointment it was just a stone. It meant nothing to her.
Human arms thrust up out of the stone floor, holding torches to light the hall around the stone. The walls were too far away to be seen. If there were walls. It was like standing on an open plane. The ceiling high above was lost in gloom. More of the severed heads with their brains exposed stood on pedestals in the middle distance, like so many computer terminals standing ready for use. Hazel wondered if that was to be her eventual fate, when the Blood Runners had got all they wanted from her, and she shuddered despite herself. Hundreds of the headless bodies formed a perimeter circle, containing the stone and the dance at a respectful distance. They were utterly motionless, unmoved for the moment by the will of their owners.
From listening to Scour and Lament, and occasionally egging them into arguing with each other, Hazel had managed to build up some notion of how they lived here. They all derived their powers from the Summerstone, making them all theoretically equal, so they pursued power and influence by forming ever-changing partnerships and cabals, and creating ever increasing private armies of the headless men to enforce their will on the physical plane. Intrigue was rife, occasionally breaking out into open clashes between opposed armies in the stone corridors. The already precarious status quo was apparently on the edge of breaking down completely with Hazel’s arrival, and the possibility of accessing the full power of the Madness Maze.
The Blood Runners danced on and on, sweat dripping from their faces as their bare feet slammed harder and harder against the unyielding stone. Hazel lost all track of time with nothing to measure it against. But finally the Blood Runners stopped, crashing to a sudden halt, their feet hammering down in one last simultaneous step, as though the unheard music had been abruptly cut off. They stood breathing heavily for a long moment, not looking at one another, and then they turned as one and bowed to the stone. They b
roke up into groups then, murmuring quietly together, too softly for Hazel to overhear. They sounded like the far-off murmur of the sea, rising and falling. The largest group had formed around Scour, and eventually all the other groups orientated on his. He stared around him coldly, almost sneering, then reached inside his robes and brought out an object wrapped in crackling parchment. Scour unwrapped it slowly, not allowing himself to be rushed by the intent concentration of the others. Inside was a severed human hand, ancient and mummified. The tips of the fingers ended in candle wicks. Scour spoke a few quiet words, and the wicks caught alight, burning with pale blue flames.
Hazel grimaced. She’d seen such things before, on Mistworld, where they were called Hands of Glory. Made from the severed hand of a hanged man, the superstitious claimed they could open hidden doors, discover lost treasures, and reveal the secrets in a dead man’s head. The arts involved in their manufacture were said to be very unpleasant.
Scour advanced on the Summerstone, holding the blazing Hand of Glory out before him. Hazel felt a sudden lurch, within and without her, and suddenly the stone wasn’t just a stone anymore. Without moving or changing in any way, the Summerstone was more real, more there; realer than anything or anyone on the great stone plane. Hazel could feel a slow, soundless thudding in the air, like the heartbeat of something impossibly huge, impossibly far away, but at the same time so close she felt she could reach out and touch it. It echoed in her bones and in her water, and something in her responded to it, like the tune of a song she had always known. The presence of the standing stone grew stronger, as though it were the only light and they were just the shadows it cast. The Blood Runners were frozen in place, breathing together in perfect synchronization, their eyes fixed unblinkingly on the Summerstone. Hazel moaned softly as something like pain throbbed in her head in time to the silent heartbeat. She could feel her mind changing, unraveling ... as though something that had always been within her were finally awakening. A great truth trembled before her, like a name right on the tip of her tongue.
And then Scour blew out the candles on the Hand of Glory’s fingers, reality crashed back to normal, and the stone was just a stone again. The Blood Runners stirred, as though emerging reluctantly from a communal dream. Some of them stared at the stone, and some at Hazel, and it was hard to tell which group looked the most disturbed. Scour glared about him.
“You see? The stone recognized her. It responded to her presence. If I hadn’t shut it down again, who knows how much power she might have been able to draw from it? She must be removed from here, kept separate from the stone, secured in a laboratory where she can be examined in safety. For all our protection.”
“Logical,” said a new Blood Runner, stepping forward from his group to confront Scour. “But we must all have access to the subject, and all information derived from the subject. That is not negotiable.”
“All secrets will be shared, Pyre,” said Scour. “What’s the matter; don’t you trust me?”
There was a shared murmur of hissing laughter from all present, but there was no humor in the bloodred eyes fixed on Scour. He glared right back at them defiantly, showing his teeth in a smile that was as much a snarl.
“Why should the pleasures of the interrogation be all yours?” said Pyre. “We all wish to know the joys of penetrating her flesh and blood, to savor her little cries and horrors as she gives up her mysteries one by one. You are too jealous of your pleasures, Scour, and we will not stand for it.”
“You know, I’m still willing to cooperate,” said Hazel, just a little desperately. “This doesn’t have to be a fight. The things you’re after are secrets to me too. We could look for them together. Perhaps if you were to tell me more about your past and your true nature, I might be able to suggest directions you could look in; things that might not occur to you. I’ve been through the Madness Maze, remember, wielded powers you never even dreamed of. You’d be surprised where I’ve been.”
For a long moment, she thought they weren’t going to buy it. The bloodred eyes stared at her coldly, unsympathetically, from all sides. Hazel was bluffing, but hoped they didn’t know that. For the moment, she was as concerned with staying close to the Summerstone, as with putting off Scour’s bloodthirsty desires. Simply being around the Stone made her feel stronger.
“Tell her,” said Lament. “Let her know who and what she is dealing with.”
“A new viewpoint may be of value,” said Pyre. “Very well. Listen, Hazel d‘Ark, and learn our secret history.”
“You always did like an audience,” said Scour.
“Once, we were human,” said Pyre. “Only human, though separated from the mainstream of Humanity even then, by our own choice, following a darker, more subtle path. Some of us came to what would be known as the Wolfing World, as archaeologists. And quite by accident we found the Madness Maze, while looking for something else. Or perhaps it found us. In the greater realm, there are no accidents. Everything has a meaning. Everything has a purpose.
“We wondered at the great Henge, sensing its power, but chose not to enter it. We knew even then that whoever passed through the Madness Maze would emerge changed irrevocably. We had put much time and effort into making ourselves what we were, and did not wish to risk unknown changes. We studied the Henge for years, using the most powerful and subtle sciences of the day, and discovered just enough to whet our appetites. Of course, simply by spending so much time in close proximity to the Henge, we were already changing, becoming more than we were. We did not always look like this.
“And as our bodies slowly changed, our minds did as well. New vistas opened up before us. By this time, word of what we’d found had reached the then Emperor. To buy us time to continue our studies, we created for him the new shock troops he desired; the Wolfings. But they were affected by the Henge too, and became more than we meant, more than they should have been. The Emperor grew afraid, and had them wiped out. I understand you met the last Wolfing, Hazel d’ Ark. A strange creature, possibly immortal. Almost certainly kept alive by the Maze, to serve its own purposes.
“After the Wolfings rebelled, and the Empire forces moved in to exterminate them, we had no choice but to leave their world. The Emperor had not appreciated our gift, and there were warrants on all our heads. There was no time to plan or prepare. We took one stone and fled, bare hours ahead of the arriving Fleet. The Summerstone brought us here, and we have lived in this place ever since. We rarely leave. Away from the stone, our power wanes, and Time crashes in upon us. We look to you to free us from these chains.
“Centuries passed, while we learned to draw what we needed from the Summerstone. And down the long years, we discovered and gave our lives to our great Quest, our search for the greatest knowledge of all; to know the true nature of underlying reality. What is, as opposed to what appears to be. Not the things of mist and shadow that our still limited senses perceive, but the bedrock on which all existence is based. The recent creation of espers has revealed new ways of perceiving reality, but you Maze people have the potential to see, to sense, to know so much more. And you will help us know these things too.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Hazel. “What is there beyond the universe we know? Heaven and Hell and all that?”
“Such small concepts,” said Scour. “We wish to find and experience the basic, primal reality. To rip aside all the veils, and know the answer to all questions. We will become gods. It is our destiny.”
“You’re all potty,” said Hazel. “I’m sorry, but you’re all completely barking. How the hell am I supposed to help you?”
“When you and the others passed through the Madness Maze,” said Scour, “we felt the change. Your transformation affected everything else, like ripples spreading out from a stone thrown into the center of reality. It was decided that we would take one of you for examination. You had the most weaknesses, and your particular talent fascinated us. If we could control your ability to summon alternate versions of yourself, we would have an endless s
upply of Maze people to experiment on. We have tried cloning our subjects in the past, but the nature of this place interferes with the process. You are the answer to all our problems.”
“Someone is coming,” said one of the severed human heads, and all the Blood Runners turned to look.
“What do you mean, someone’s coming?” said Scour. “No one can come here without our permission. No one can find us, unless we allow it. Who could possibly be coming here?”
“The Deathstalker,” said the severed head, and the other computer heads took up the name, chanting it over and over again, until Scour shut them all with an angry wave of his hand. “He will be here soon,” said the first head. “Soon,” whispered the other heads in unison, and then they fell silent.
“Another Maze subject for our experiments,” said Lament. “Fortune smiles on us.”
“Fool!” snapped Pyre. “This is the Deathstalker! He toppled the Empire! And if he can find his way here, to us, he must be even more powerful than we believed. He must be stopped, before he can reach Hazel d‘Ark. Together, who knows what they might be capable of, so close to the Summerstone?” He turned and glared at Scour. “Take her. Break her. Rip her secrets out of her before the Deathstalker arrives. Do whatever you have to.”
“I always intended to,” said Scour. “I trust I can count on not being interrupted?”
“We’ll protect you,” said Pyre. “But don’t dare fail us.”
“Come,” said Scour to Hazel. “Let us return to my laboratory. And begin our explorations into the limits of suffering.”
Hazel kicked and struggled as the two headless bodies dragged her away, and couldn’t loosen their grip one bit.
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