by D. P. Prior
The largest of the three moons was sinking, the cobalt sky darkening almost to black as it crept beneath the horizon. The swamp, however, did not sleep. Insects buzzed, and things splashed and bubbled in the distance. Even the ground they now walked upon was slick with slime and writhed beneath their feet. Mosquitoes the size of rats bumped into them, drawn by their body heat.
They crested another rise and found themselves upon a stretch of grassland that was relatively dry. Shader cast around for tinder for a fire, while Rhiannon flopped to the ground with a weary sigh. Shadrak was nowhere to be seen. For all Shader knew, the assassin could be neck deep in a quagmire, led astray by the eerie glowing sphere. That would wreck any chance they had of getting back to Earth. Even if Shader could find the plane ship, he wouldn’t have a clue how to pilot it. Still, it was a moot point if they couldn’t stop Gandaw in time. Then there’d be no Earth to return to, no Aethir, no anything.
There was plenty of damp wood beneath the bent trees, but whenever Shader tried to break branches off, the trees swayed and lashed at him with barbed lianas. It seemed the flora was sentient, watching their progress, herding them, even, and defending against their intrusion.
Gathering what he could from the ground, Shader rummaged in his pockets for some matches. His fingers brushed against the bowl of the pipe Aristodeus had given him the day he’d left for Aeterna. It was a sort of joke: the philosopher had smoked frequently, particularly when laboring a point in one of his lectures. Shader had never used it, but right now he could feel the appeal. Maybe if they got back to Sahul, he’d search out some tobacco. Right now, the chances of that seemed pretty slim.
The wood took, but smoked and popped so much as to make them cough and move away from the little warmth the fire shed. Rhiannon shivered, her arms hugged about her, hair lank, and robe sodden.
“How’s he know this is Aethir?” she asked.
“Shadrak? Doesn’t he have some secret advisor? Besides, just look at the sky. You can’t seriously believe we’re still on Earth.”
Rhiannon looked up at the unfamiliar stars, shaking her head ever so gently.
“Aethir’s the Dreaming, isn’t it?” She stared into the darkness for a while then lowered her gaze. “The spirit world of the Dreamers,” she said to the ground. “Do you think this is what Sammy sees?”
“He’s not gone, Rhiannon.” Not abandoned you. “The boy’s just hurting, like we all are. Your parents—”
“Not that it matters,” Rhiannon said. Her tone was sullen, tinged with despair. “What’s left to worry about, if Gandaw’s going to end everything?”
Shader crouched beside her, touched her arm. “We don’t know that,” he said. “Maybe there’s still a chance.”
Rhiannon looked him in the eye. She needed someone to believe in, Shader could see that. She was assessing him, wondering if he was up to it. He stood and looked toward the horizon as the largest of the moons vanished, limning a range of distant mountains with pearly light.
“Where is the stunted shogger, anyway?” Rhiannon said.
“Ain knows. But if he’s not back in the morning—assuming there is a morning here—we go on without him.”
“Go on? Go on where?”
“South’s what he said.” Shader said it with more confidence than he felt.
“And which way’s that?” Rhiannon asked.
Shader chose not to answer. What could he tell her? That he didn’t have a clue? That they were lost without Shadrak, doomed to wander the marsh in circles till Gandaw put them out of their misery.
They sat in stony silence for a minute, and then Rhiannon turned her head toward him.
“Don’t trust him, Deacon. Not after what he did.”
Shader’s hand went to his back. It was becoming an automatic reflex. “I know,” he said. “But what choice do we have?”
“We’re here. That’s all we needed him for. We’re better off without him.”
Shader nodded to himself. She may have been right, but how could he tell? Whatever they were caught up in, whatever cosmic drama, it was too big to comprehend. If he allowed himself to think about it, he’d either go mad or be paralyzed by the enormity of any decisions he might make. One step at a time. That was all he could do. And if it wasn’t enough—well, how could he be held accountable for the fate of worlds? If Nous wanted his service, then wasn’t it about time he showed his hand?
He gave Rhiannon a wry smile. “I have no idea which way is south.”
“Me neither.”
Rhiannon settled down beside the smoking fire. She coughed and muttered something under her breath but stayed stubbornly facing the flames with her back to Shader.
Shader unwound his prayer cord from his belt and thumbed his way to the Gordian Knot. He sat cross-legged at a distance from Rhiannon and worked at the lines of the knot, which proved as ungiving as ever. His eyes swayed to Rhiannon’s white-robed form, the graceful curve of her hips, the starkness of her black hair falling almost to her waist. Her breaths came heavily, her robe shuddering with each intake.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the words dissolved on his tongue. He longed to reach out and touch her, stroke away her pain, but he feared her rejection even more than he feared where such tenderness might lead. He shut his eyes and focused on the unsolvable problem of the knot, praying silently in his futility for Ain the Unknowable to reveal his will.
Shader knew that his dwindling faith was linked to his mounting disappointments; knew that he couldn’t blame Ain for the loss of Rhiannon, the manipulations of Aristodeus and Huntsman. Even the Ipsissimus and his failure to act was no reason to impugn the faithfulness of Ain, and yet the knowledge alone was not enough to keep his heart from turning to ice. Ain was big enough to take it, Shader had no doubt about that; if not, then he wasn’t the infinite deity the Templum claimed he was. But that was the problem—even more than the wedge that had been driven between Shader and Rhiannon; even more than Shader’s shame at what Gaston had done: how could he trust anything the Templum said? The Gray Abbot had told him the Liber was a hotchpotch of philosophies and religions from the Ancients’ world, sewn together for popular appeal by the Liche Lord, Otto Blightey. At the time, Blightey, in the guise of a friar, had been considered holy by the fledgling Templum, but even here they had been proven wrong. If the Templum was not infallible, what would possess someone to give their life to its teachings?
A cry sounded from the darkness. Shader’s hand went to the gladius, and he stared into the gloam but could see nothing.
“That the midget?” Rhiannon said, rolling over and facing him.
The golden sphere—assuming it was the same one—appeared amid a clump of gorse, maybe fifty yards distant. It moved away a little and then returned to its starting point. A muffled scream punched through the murk, and Shader stood.
Rhiannon placed a hand on his leg. “What are you doing? You know this is a trap.”
Shader sucked in a deep breath. She was right. It was too obvious, but at the same time, what if Shadrak was in trouble? What if they could reach him in time?
“You stay here. I want to take a look.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Rhiannon climbed to her feet. “If you’re drowning in quicksand, I’m coming with you. There’s no way I’m staying here on my own.” Suddenly, she gripped his arm. “What the shog’s that?”
Shader followed her finger and saw a figure drift through the undergrowth like a ghost. Within seconds it had vanished from sight.
“Shadrak?”
“Too tall,” Rhiannon said.
Shader drew the gladius and strode in the direction the specter had gone. Rhiannon went with him, her fingers clamping about his free hand. Vines writhed above them, and a curling briar lashed at Shader’s boot. The gladius swept down and severed it before it could coil around his leg.
As they pushed deeper into the thicket, the gladius’s glow diminished, as if smothered by the malevolence of the swamp. Shader slowed, and
Rhiannon’s grip on his hand tightened. The way back was as black as pitch. Even the limning of the horizon had perished, and the two smaller moons were obscured by the undergrowth. Shader held the gladius before him like a torch. He could see the blade itself, but it shed no light on the way. He turned, seeking the route back to the fire, but thick tangles of creepers now blocked their passage. He could have sworn the mangroves had shifted to form a barrier behind them. Rhiannon pressed closer.
“What the shog is happening?”
Shader wheeled her to face the way the figure had headed. He could see nothing through the darkness. Feeling in front with the gladius, he led Rhiannon onward, testing the soft ground with every step. A low tremor passed beneath their feet, and from somewhere to the left, there came an answering slosh, like the lapping of viscous waves.
The golden sphere seemed to taunt them. It revolved around an invisible axis and then drifted slowly away.
“A light in the darkness,” Shader said with wry humor, paraphrasing the passage from the Liber.
“Makes me feel a whole lot better.” Rhiannon took a step toward it.
“Wait,” Shader said, foreboding clawing its icy way up his spine. “Maybe Shadrak was right.”
Rhiannon released his hand. “Don’t see him coming up with any better ideas. Either we follow the light, or we stand here until morning. And we don’t even know if that will ever come. I’m going. Do what you like.”
With that, she strode after the sphere, heedless of the dangers that might lurk underfoot. Shader sighed and jogged to catch up with her, but no matter how much they quickened their pace, the sphere maintained the same distance ahead of them.
The undergrowth fell back like an invitation. Shader didn’t like it one bit but could see no other choice. The best he could do was be prepared for the worst and pray he was strong enough to deal with the threat when it came.
The sphere set a zigzag course that seemed to follow a muddy track through the mire; only, when Shader looked back, the path had gone, covered over by dense vegetation. Up ahead, crepuscular light tinged the sky, revealing the jagged tops of distant mountains. Shader had no sense of direction other than that particular landmark. The dwindling stars were in unfamiliar constellations, and no sun had yet risen above the horizon. When the sphere gave an agitated wobble and fizzed off into the sky, Shader and Rhiannon were left stranded in the gray-blue half-light.
They entered a clearing surrounded by the silhouettes of twisted trees. The ground squelched underfoot, sometimes bursting like a blister to seep foul smelling fluid over Shader’s boots. Rhiannon made no complaint, despite wearing only sandals. Her expression was stony, almost vacant, as if she despaired of ever getting out of there.
With a speed that should have been unnatural, the sun rose from its lair beneath the mountains, its golden glow brightening the sky into a canvass of pastel violet. Another sun rose behind it, smaller, and yet climbing higher, until the two settled like a pair of crooked eyes, and the sky turned to cobalt. As if taking their cue from the suns, or the departure of the sphere, hulking shapes began to lumber from the surrounding trees.
Shader stepped away from Rhiannon, forcing his body to relax, the gladius held loosely in his right hand. He heard the scrape of Rhiannon drawing the black sword. She was looking back the way they had come, where more of the creatures were stalking toward them. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and took a two-handed grip on the sword.
The creatures walked like men and carried weapons—clubs, stone axes, spears—but they were scaly, like lizards, and colored the greens and browns of the swamp. They had ridged foreheads and pinprick eyes ringed with yellow. Cavernous mouths revealed fangs like a serpent’s and long flicking tongues. Most of them were naked, save for a few in tattered skins from some hairless beast.
One of the creatures, smaller than the rest, pushed to the front and held up a three-fingered hand to halt the others. This one was garbed in filthy gray trousers and the remains of a tunic. It wore a black gauntlet on its right hand, a glove almost comically large. Tongues of bluish flame raced about the fingers, of which there were four plus a thumb.
“Humans in Sour Marsh,” it said with a slight lisp. “So rare, so rare. From Qlippoth, yes? Come to frighten Gandaw?”
“Qlippoth?” Shader said. “What’s that?”
The lizard-man raised the gauntlet to indicate the mountains. “You know. Everyone knows.”
Shader shook his head. “We’re strangers here.”
“Bah,” the lizard-man said. “City folk, I say. Long way from home, but not strangers. Skeyr Magnus not stupid. Skeyr Magnus take power from Gandaw.”
The lizard-man made a fist of the gauntlet, and the blue flames flared momentarily. A replica of the gauntlet appeared in the air and began to swell to an enormous size.
“Impressive,” Shader said. “But I’ve seen that before.”
Rhiannon drew back Callixus’s sword, eyes tracking the giant hand—it was identical in every way to the one they’d seen Gandaw use above the Homestead. Shader did his best to remain relaxed, but he trusted his instincts to kick in at the first sign of attack.
“Long time ago, maybe,” Skeyr Magnus said. “But now glove is mine. Gandaw weak without it. Skeyr Magnus new technocrat soon.”
“You’re sure about that?” Shader said. “Only, I saw an identical hand a few hours ago.”
“Lies,” Skeyr Magnus said, the giant fist shaking before him. “Only one glove. Skeyr Magnus steal it. Gandaw weak now.”
“When did you steal it?” Rhiannon asked.
“Long time ago, me said. You stupid? Not listen to Skeyr Magnus?”
“But Sektis Gandaw made this glove?” Rhiannon said. Skeyr Magnus gave a curt nod, as if that proved his case. “Then what’s to stop him making another?”
The lizard-man looked from the giant hand to the black gauntlet he wore, and a shudder rippled through his scales.
“Not possible. Gandaw weak. You will see. Skeyr Magnus new technocrat. You see. Gave own hand for glove. Much pain Skeyr Magnus felt. It burns onto bone. Much pain, but now much power. This, Gandaw fears.”
Shader’s eyes scanned the other lizard-men surrounding them. They were motionless, like heat-starved crocodiles in the Sahulian winter. If it hadn’t been for the tracking of their eyes, they could have been mistaken for statues carved from the dried vegetation of the swamp.
“The mountains,” Shader said. “Is Gandaw beyond them?”
“Stupid.” Skeyr Magnus unclenched his gauntlet, and the giant black hand vanished. “That way Qlippoth. You must know. Everyone knows.”
“Qlippoth?” Rhiannon asked. “What the shog’s that?”
“Bad dreams. Nightmares. No one goes there. Even Gandaw scared of it.”
Shader exchanged a glance with Rhiannon.“There was a light.” He drew a circle in the air. “A golden sphere that was leading us toward the mountains.”
“Wisp,” Skeyr Magnus said. “Only fools follow wisps.”
“So it wasn’t yours?” Rhiannon said.
“No, not mine. Come to lure you across mountains. Take you to Qlippoth. You lucky Skeyr Magnus found you.” The lizard-man waved his hand to take in the swamp. “Sour Marsh overflows from Qlippoth. Bad place. Evil. But Gandaw will not come here.”
Rhiannon glanced at Shader then back at the lizard-man. “So, you’re hiding from Gandaw?”
Skeyr Magnus puffed out his chest and glared, his yellow eyes darkening to amber. “Waiting only. Building army. One day take Perfect Peak.”
Shader frowned. “Gandaw’s mountain?”
“Many guards,” Skeyr Magnus said. “But one day, Skeyr Magnus have big army.”
“How soon?” Shader asked, sensing the possibility of an alliance. “You know Gandaw has started the Unweaving. There’s not much time left.”
“Bah,” Skeyr Magnus said. “What Unweaving?” He looked around as if to emphasize the point that nothing had changed. “Lies to scare, make slaves o
f all. Skeyr Magnus no slave. He not scared.”
“We are looking for the Perfect Peak,” Shader said. “Can you help us get there?”
Skeyr Magnus thumped his hand into the palm of the gauntlet. The surrounding lizard-men shook their spears and advanced a pace.
“You not take science. Skeyr Magnus take it. Become stronger. Skeyr Magnus new technocrat. You see.”
“We don’t want the bloody science,” Rhiannon said, but Skeyr Magnus thumped his hand again, and the lizard-men started to close the circle.
A thunder-crack blasted from the trees, and Skeyr Magnus yelped. Smoke billowed from his gauntlet, and blue flames crackled over its surface. He raised the gauntlet to his eyes and gaped at the hole that had been punched straight through it.
The lizard-men turned to the trees, seeking out the source of the attack. Skeyr Magnus shook with rage and clenched the glove into a fist. Sparks flew off, and then he began to spasm as they danced along his scales. Smoke effused from his limbs, and froth bubbled around his mouth.
The lizard-men turned back to him, as if awaiting his command. He shook violently and fell to the ground, body wracked with seizures.
“K–k–kill,” he stammered.
Suddenly animated, the lizard-men surged toward Shader and Rhiannon. Another thunder-crack boomed, and a lizard-man dropped with a hole through its chest. Something was thrown, and a blinding flash of light erupted, scattering a group of the creatures and almost incinerating one.
Shader spun just in time to parry a spear thrust aimed at Rhiannon. He stepped inside and rammed the gladius into the lizard-man’s eye. Rhiannon ducked beneath another blow and swung the black sword. Shader thought it lacked speed and power, but unnervingly, the blade sliced through a reptilian neck like butter, and the head rolled to the ground. Rhiannon looked momentarily stunned but then had to turn to block a savage axe blow. The haft of the axe shattered on contact, and the black sword followed through, spilling the creature’s guts in ropes of steaming offal.