The Ravens of Death (Tsun-Tsun TzimTzum Book 4)

by Mike Truk

  We needed no further bidding. The Servitors lined up before the cavern entrance were pouring forth streams of glowing blue runes; these attached to the rear of the wall of darkness and there hung, glowing frantically. They skittered back at times, clearly longing to turn away altogether, but not daring to do so.

  I tried for Manipura, to lift off the ground just enough to keep up with the others, but I was all tapped out, nothing left. So I simply ground my teeth and ran, limping as quickly as I could with Brielle’s help, and hurried after the Servitor into the rear of the cave. It revealed a winding tunnel of ribbed stone, narrow enough that Brielle and I could barely fit into it together.

  A thick sweat broke out across my brow, my heart pounding as if on the war path; the pain was a constant arc of lightning through the fabric of my being. My back was a mass of agony as well, the skin pulling in weird ways against the old scar tissue left by my whipping in the Manifold.

  But I inhaled as deeply as I could and tried for the Vam.

  I walk… I walk in the fires… I…

  I couldn’t grasp the mantra. The pain was too intense.

  I bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood and tried for the Carnivorous Winter instead.

  White is the color of death.

  Immediately a coolness washed over me. Or - no. I felt the pain recede as if I were falling away from it - but not just the pain. My anger. My doubt, my fear. It was different than the Vam - a negation of self over the controlling of it.

  I embraced that relief.

  And into it bleeds all feeling. All hope. All terror, everything that is, until all that remains is the self, quiescent, alone, and without wonder or pain.

  Brielle was slouching more and more, and I realized that her injuries had to be draining her of strength. She’d been hit by that acid splash as well. I didn’t feel any remorse, but decided clinically not to lean on her any longer.

  “Emma,” I croaked.

  She turned back to me, eyes wide in the soft blue radiance that permeated the tunnel like the huge cavern behind us. “Oh - right.”

  She slipped in under my other arm, and Brielle released me, falling behind. Little Meow pressed herself against the tunnel wall, allowing Imogen to pass her by, then Neveah. She slipped past us both to help with Brielle, despite the raw, mangled wounds that covered her own back.

  I looked for Valeria, instinctively wanting to see her, to draw strength from her calm, her resolve, her sheer vitality.

  But of course, she wasn’t there, and the loss hit me like a stone dropped into my gut.

  The Carnivorous Winter took that loss and numbed it immediately.

  “Here,” said Emma, “let me see if I can help.”

  More healing magic spread across my back, causing the skin to prickle and burn as I healed at a vastly accelerated rate. I didn’t even gasp, but simply hobbled on with grim determination, eyes boring into Neveah’s slender back, focused on movement, on keeping up.

  The tunnel wound back and forth, up and down, as if bored by some erratic worm a yard in diameter. The impression was only reinforced by the weirdly ribbed surface of the curving walls; at once smooth along the raised ridges, but with a crushed, glittery appearance in the grooves.

  A detonation sounded behind us, and a cloud of dust blew up the tunnel, momentarily obscuring everything. It settled moments later, and I kept trudging, ignoring the shockwave, the dust, everything.

  Every minute or so another explosion sounded, with more dust blasting past us. I didn’t need to ask to know what was going on - the Servitors were continuously collapsing the tunnel, bringing the mountain down between us and Lilith’s hordes.

  I’d have thanked them if I had the energy.

  Finally, the tunnel opened up into a small cavern. It was low-ceilinged at first but opened up to reveal stalactites and stalagmites, connected to form attenuated pillars on the far end. The largest had been sawed away to create an altar or speaking platform. The gentle blue radiance did little to banish the shadows in the deeper corners, but as our party came to a stop, I was able to make out movement in the recesses. More ghastly Servitors emerged with skittish movements to peer at us with their blind eyes, many of them glowing eerily white under heavy hoods.

  The Servitor that had been leading us moved to the fore, and there was joined by two others. I couldn’t tell them apart. Same dusty robes, same cadaverous features, skin nearly gray, teeth horrifically prominent beyond receded black gums.

  “What by the Chasmstone is happening out there?” demanded one of the new arrivals, voice shrill with anger or terror, or both.

  “The plangentweb is vibrating at the highest octave I’ve yet seen!” exclaimed the second, washing his skeletal hands together over and over. “The resonance is driving me mad. What is happening, C’toh?”

  C’toh brushed past them both angrily and strode over to the truncated stalagmite, which he stiffly ascended to turn and regard us all. The other Servitors - a crowd of perhaps two dozen - tried to eye him and us both, the result being nervous glances flicked back and forth as if they couldn’t tell from where the next attack was going to come.

  C’toh pointed a gnarled digit at me. “Who are you? What is happening in Gravehall?”

  “Gravehall?” I asked, forcing myself to hobble forward. “That huge fucking cavern?”

  “Yes, yes, Gravehall. What by the Chasmstone and the twelve phallic-shaped stalactites of yore is going on? Hmm?”

  “Well.” I took stock and fought not to sway. When was the last time I’d been this hurt, this depleted? Despite Emma’s healing, my ankle was still a snarled, tender mess. My back burned, and I felt a sucking exhaustion, like a constant blow to the solar plexus. “I guess Lilith’s throwing a party to welcome us to Tantaghrast.”

  My levity didn’t go over as planned. The Servitors hissed, most of them scuttling back into the shadows as if Lilith’s name was a flashlight shone into a basement filled with roaches. C’toh hunched his shoulders and grimaced, revealing even more of his gruesome maw.

  “What Noah is trying to say,” said Imogen, stepping up beside me, “is that we are on a quest to reach the Fulcrum, which is located somewhere within this realm. We stole an airship from Ur-Gharab to skip the realms Lilith wished us to traverse, and that seems to have enraged her. The portals opened within Gravehall lead, I believe, to the realms we bypassed, namely Byzul, Matterlar, and Carcosa.”

  C’toh froze. He went statue-still, pale eyes glittering as he considered us. For a moment I suspected magic, perhaps a paralyzing attack; then he spoke, voice thick with skepticism that couldn’t quite hide a sense of hope. “One of you is the Savior?”

  “That’d be me,” I said, casting around for a chair. “Tenth Savior, last in line, and so on.” There was nowhere to sit, so I resigned to just standing there, hunched over and in pain. “We need to get to the Fulcrum to reach Malkuth, and there have our final showdown with Lilith.”

  “The Savior,” breathed C’toh. “The tenth? The universe’s last hope?” For a moment I thought he was awed, then his brow beetled over as his desiccated features curdled. “You? You’re it?”

  “I’ll be giving autographs later,” I said. “And I’ll even pose for selfies if someone gets me a chair.”

  “There is great power within this group,” said another Servitor from the platform’s base. Was he one of the two that had accosted C’toh? I couldn’t tell. “Great power.”

  “Yes, yes, very impressive, but they’re a cave louse’s shit compared to the fecal ocean that’s occupying Gravehall,” snapped C’toh.

  “But wait,” said Emma. “We killed Morgana. Who’s opening those portals to the other realms? Shouldn’t they have closed when she died?”

  “The dread Regent is dead?” demanded another Servitor. I gave up trying to figure out which was which. “You speak in truth?”

  “Yes,” said Brielle, her tone assured, manner poised despite her wounds. “We slew her before quitting Ur-Gharab.”

&n
bsp; The Servitors fell into whispering to each other. C’toh rubbed at his bare chin so hard I thought he might pull it off.

  “I wasn’t joking about that chair,” I said.

  “You are the Servitors, are you not?” Imogen’s tone was polite, almost deferential. “The original inhabitants of Tantaghrast?”

  “Once we were called such,” said C’toh querulously. “But we are so greatly diminished that we now call ourselves the Wights of Tantaghrast.” His smile was withering. “Forgive our pathos and self-pity. We are nothing if bonfires of bitterness and regret.”

  “Forgiven,” I said, hopping a couple of times to relieve my ankle. “Chair? I’d settle for a stool.”

  “You were once a grand order, were you not?” Imogen had at some point pulled her glove back on, and now clasped both hands together. “Your wisdom and power were legendary.”

  C’toh did his best not to preen. “Once, perhaps,” he said, tone artificially dismissive. “But that was before Tantaghrast fell under the sway of Gharab. Before the Nithing-Lord stepped foot in our caverns, claiming the Chasmstone.”

  “The Nithing-Lord,” said Emma softly. “He’s Lilith’s ruler here?”

  “Assuredly.” C’toh glanced around as if expecting this fearsome specter to materialize at any moment. “Understand this, younglings. Once we were famed throughout the universe for our wisdom and magical might. We tended the Chasmstone with pride and numbered in the thousands. Each of us a master of the arcane arts. But we could not stand against the Nithing-Lord. Though he came with endless legions at his command, he did not need them. He could have taken Tantaghrast by himself.

  “We fought him as best we could, but it was not enough. The battle took us from thousands to a scant hundred, and we remaining few survived by fleeing into the depths like vermin, hiding in the dark, weaving curtains of illusion to keep us safe from the constant patrols.”

  “But what happened to you?” asked Imogen. “Your appearance…”

  C’toh scowled. “Our last act of defiance. Before fleeing the Chasm itself, we sacrificed our essences to veil the Chasmstone and obscure its powers from the Nithing-Lord. It cost us…dearly. We are but shadows of the magi we once were, little better than novitiates compared to our former glory.”

  “But our sacrifice was not in vain!” said another Wight, raising a bony finger in glee. “The Chasmstone defies the Nithing-Lord. Refuses to succumb to his commands. He studies it, but he has yet to unweave our obfuscations.”

  Another shuffled forward a step. “When he does, however. Oh, how the universe shall tremble.”

  “And, ah, what does this Chasmstone do?” I asked.

  The Wights exchanged glances in apparent disbelief, and C’toh raised his arms dramatically, intoning, “The Chasmstone!”

  “Yeah,” I said, shifting my weight so I didn’t rest on my ruined ankle. “Exactly. What’s it do?”

  C’toh lowered his arms. “What is the universe come to if… never mind.”

  “The Chasmstone is one of the Source’s greatest artifacts,” said Imogen reverently.

  “Indeed, it has powers over life and death,” said another Wight. “Through it, one can direct the very energies of the Source, and bring back those who have departed, if they wish to return.”

  “Yes, yes,” said a third, washing his hands together over and over as his bony head bobbed. “Resurrection is contingent on the desire to be revived, which, given the appeal of sublimating one’s essence with the Source, is quite rare!”

  “But those with unfinished business, those who are yet attached to tasks unfulfilled, they are prone to returning,” said C’toh. “But nobody has used the Stone since we shrouded its powers. And the power needed for its usage is tremendous… it would take almost all of us to resurrect a departed soul, and that only if a sound case could be made for the attempt, a process that could in and of itself take years.”

  “Ah, those were the days,” said a Wight dreamily. “The deliberations, the speeches, the endless ruminations on the worthiness of the endeavor.”

  “And the Nithing-Lord wants to bring someone back?” asked Brielle skeptically.

  “One can only assume,” said C’toh, “though over the decades I’ve wondered if he doesn’t seek to deconstruct the Chasmstone and wrest its power free of its mineral cradle. Perhaps in doing so he would deliver a greater weapon to Lilith, or multiply its powers across her armies… who knows?”

  For a moment, the small cavern was silent, the Wights pondering this inevitability. Then Neveah spoke, and her voice was calm, collected. “Where is the Fulcrum?”

  “In the center of Tantaghrast,” said C’toh. “Or so we sense via the plangentweb. It lies within the Chasm.”

  “Great,” I said. “That’s where the Chasmstone is, right? Which means where the Nithing-Lord resides.”

  “Yes,” said C’toh. “Precisely.”

  “Which,” said another Wight, “means you are verily and thoroughly fucked.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Good to know. Since we’ve felt that way ever since leaving Bastion.”

  “Can you get us there?” asked Imogen. “Escort us to the Chasm, or get us close?”

  More worried whispers sounded as the Wights exchanged glances.

  “You must understand,” said C’toh, somehow managing to hunch over more, bony shoulders rising to the stubs that were his ears. “We have survived by tunneling away from the Chasm. There is no direct and secret path to it. We could get you perhaps half of the way there safely, and then…”

  “That would be as far as we would go,” snapped a second. “To venture beyond the Flowstone Steps would be madness.”

  “So far?” asked another, tone rich with incredulity. “You surprise me, T’keh! I would not pass the Geode Falls even for the return of my youth!”

  “Geode Falls would be safe enough,” muttered another. “If we were very careful about it.”

  “What lies beyond the Flowstone Stairs?” I asked, cutting into the hubbub. “How much farther is the Chasm?”

  “The Stairs lie halfway between where we are now and the Chasm itself,” said C’toh, pitching his voice over the other responses. “You would face a winding path at least a mile long to reach the Chasm. However, it is not a direct path; you would have to descend the Stairs to the Starmilk River, and follow that till you reached the Black Obelisk. There you would cross into the Fungal Cathedral, and traverse its length to reach the Wending Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is bifurcated by the Chasm, which you can follow to reach the Chasmstone and Fulcrum.”

  “Oh, that sounds fine,” I said. “Just follow the Stairmilk Cathedral to the Flowing Obelisk of Mushrooms, or whatever. Got it.”

  “Could you provide us with a map?” asked Imogen.

  “We can provide you with a map,” said C’toh.

  “But this is all buffoonery,” snapped another Wight. “You speak of these places as if they’d be empty of Lilith’s servants. Never mind that the Luminous Legion patrols them, but now forces from other worlds will spread through Tantaghrast, making it impossible to traverse.”

  “Not to mention the Nithing-Lord himself!” said another, raising a bony finger once more like an exultant professor. “The Nithing-Lord will await you at the Fulcrum, and there you shall surely perish, oh yes!”

  “Oh yes,” said another.

  “Dead for sure,” said a third.

  “Might as well cut your throats now and save everyone the bother,” said a fourth.

  “You guys are great.” I beamed at them. “I wish we could all get drunk together.”

  “We have some brews distilled from peat-rock,” said one of the Wights dubiously.

  Brielle’s tone was firm. “He was joking. We need to rest, we need a copy of this map, and then we would appreciate you guiding us to the Stairflow Cavern.”

  “Flowstone Steps,” said C’toh in annoyance.

  “I thought we agreed on the Geode Falls?” asked another.

  Briel
le brushed her crimson locks back over one shoulder; I almost winced in sympathy for the Wights.

  “You were once Servitors, were you not?” Brielle’s tone was bright, challenging. “The proudest magi in the universe? A collective envied across all the civilized worlds?”

  “Yes, but -” began C’toh.

  “And you fought against impossible odds, made the greatest sacrifices, and through your bravery denied this Nithing-Lord the Chasmstone, did you not? Those were the deeds of heroes, but where are those heroes gone?”

  “We are no longer -”

  “Because now, I don’t see Wights before me. I see men so broken that they would rather exist in shadows for the rest of eternity than attempt something even a little bit dangerous. But what use this existence? Hmm?” Brielle raised an eyebrow as she scoured the Wights for an answer. Of course, she didn’t give them time to respond. “What, I ask you, is the point of skulking in the shadows if you don’t plan to ever attempt another act of defiance? You advised us to slit our throats, but at least we’re willing to try, to defy the odds for the Source. You? You’re content to just exist, like lice, happy in your obscurity. Have the Servitors really come to this? When offered a chance to serve the Source once more, to help the last Savior save the universe, you would refuse?”

  “You do not understand -” tried C’toh again, then fell back as Brielle rounded on him.

  “No, it is you who do not understand. Your service is not over! You don’t get to fight one battle and think your part is finished. The Source calls upon you to fight, and you shall fight on! Now enough with these excuses and pathetic deflections. You will take us to the Stairflow Cavern -”

  “Flowstone Steps,” muttered C’toh.

  “- and you will be grateful for the opportunity to serve the Source. Am I clear?”

  More muttering sounded. The Wights refused to meet Brielle’s glare, staring sheepishly at the ground and each other, until finally C’toh sighed, nodding.

  “Very well, very well, we will take you as far as the Steps. But no further!”

  Brielle sniffed. “We’ll see.”

  “Have I ever told you how much I love your emotional rampages?” I asked Brielle, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “But one thing. I don’t think we have time to rest. At least, not for long. Emma, if you can fix my ankle, we’ll press on. I don’t want Valeria in captivity for a second longer than necessary.”