It begins to vibrate, and his hands adjust the wand.
It coils about him, then draws back.
Standing there, above the clouds and all, he unleashes lightnings upon it.
An humming sound occurs.
The star wand vibrates within his hand, emits a whining note, grows brighter.
The Thing falls back. Set strides across the sky, attacking it.
It drops, falls, retreats, toward the surface of the world.
Pursuing, Set stands upon a mountaintop. Somewhere, above the moon, the Prince and the General follow.
Set laughs, and the heat of an exploding sun plays along the creature’s length.
But then it turns and strikes, and Set retreats across the continent, mushrooms of smoke rising in his wake.
Storms shake their curly heads. Ball lightning rolls across the sky. The perpetual twilight is brightened by a tongue of flame which falls upon his pursuer.
It advances, however, and mountains fall where it passes. Far below, the ground trembles, and the shoes upon his feet track thunderprints where Set passes, turns, turns again.
The rains pour down, the clouds thicken. Flame-tipped funnels appear below.
The creature comes on, striking, and its path is incandescent, then gray, then incandescent.
The wand rings like a bell, and the seas outleap their bounds.
The creature is assailed by all the elements, yet still it advances.
Set snarls, and the rocks grind together and the winds tear the tent of the sky down the middle, flap it, rejoin its halves.
The creature cries once more, and Set, with one foot upon the sea, smiles within his glove and delivers whirlwinds and concussions.
Yet it advances, and the air grows cold.
The typhoon rises beneath Set’s hand, and the lightnings descend without letup. The ground is broken, sinks within itself.
Set and the creature strike simultaneously, and the continent is destroyed beneath them.
The oceans begin to boil, and an aurora borealis of all colors covers the entire sky.
Then three needles of white light pass through the creature, and it retreats toward the equator.
Set follows; chaos follows Set.
Thunders above the equator, and the lash, lash, lash of the star wand through the sky…
Smoke the color of grass fills the middle air. Destiny’s lackey, Time, repaints a backdrop behind it.
There is a cry, and again a chiming, as of a bell, as the chains of the sea are broken and the waters rise up, swaying like the pillars of Pompeii on that day, that day when they were broken, inundated; and the heat, the heat of the boiling oceans rises with them; and now the air is dense and unbreathable. Employing temporal fugue. Set crucifies the creature upon the smoldering sky, and still it cries out and lashes at him, draws back. The armor of Set is unbreached, mundane though it is, for the Thing That Cries has not touched upon him. Now Set unleashes beads of blaze that are like unto a Guy Fawkes display. The creature erupts at nineteen points, collapses upon itself. Then comes a mighty roaring, and the lightnings lance once more. The Thing That Cries In The Night becomes a bowling ball, an eight ball. It wails then to break the eardrum, and Set clutches at his head, but continues to bathe the creature in the light of his wand.
Then the screaming comes from the wand itself. A pink blade of fire descends upon the creature.
It becomes an old man with a long beard, miles high, suddenly.
It raises one hand, and there is light all about Set.
But he raises his wand and darkness devours the light, and a green trident forks forth to strike the creature upon its breast.
Falling, it becomes a sphinx, and he shatters its face with ultrasonics.
Collapsing, it becomes a satyr, and he castrates it with silver pliers.
Then it rears, wounded, to a three-mile height, cobra of black smoke, and Set knows that the moment is at hand.
He raises the star wand and makes an adjustment.
Intermezzo
Armies clash in the fog on the planet D’donori, and the golinda mate on the graves of the slain; when the crown is torn from Dilwit’s head, he will be without a scalp; again, Brotz, Purtz and Dulp are blinded by their neighbors; on the world Waldik there is wailing and darkness; out of the ruins of Blis, life comes forth once again; Marachek is dead, dead, dead: color it dust; the Schism has begun on Interludici, and also the evening rains, with a purported vision of the Sacred Shoes by a monk named Bros, who may have been drug-crazed; a mad, mad wind blows beneath the sea in the Place of the Heart’s Desire, and a green saurian who lives there frolics in the autumn mist, constellations of bright-bellied fishes wheeling everywhere.
Cane, Pendant, and Chariot Away
His arm is around her waist, and together they watch the pictures that form within the frame, there in the House of the Dead. They watch Osiris, as he sails across the sky on his black crossbow, upon which is mounted a thing that can smash a sun. He rides alone, and the yellow eyes never blink within that face which cannot know expression. They watch the dark cockleshell which contains Anubis, Madrak and an empty glove which holds power.
Vramin traces two lines with the tip of his cane, extending the courses of the vessels. The picture changes to the place where the lines intersect. There lies the twilight world, and its surface undergoes upheavals as they watch.
“How is it that they could know the place?” asks Isis.
“I do not know— Unless… Osiris! He found a note. I watched his expression as he read it.”
“And…?”
“Horus. Horus must have left him the note—telling him the place.”
“How could Horus know it?”
“He fought with Thoth—probably within Thoth’s own mind, and Horus can look into a man’s head, know what he is thinking. Sometime during that encounter, he must have stolen this knowledge from the Prince, who is normally proof against such skills. —Yes, at some time he must have let down his guard for an instant. He must be warned!”
“Perhaps Typhon will yet provide for his safety.”
“Where is Typhon now?”
They regard the frame, and all pictures flee.
Black, black, black. There is nothing.
“It is as though Typhon does not exist,” says Vramin.
“No,” says Isis. “You look upon Skagganauk the Abyss. Typhon has withdrawn from the universe, to seek his own way along the undersides of space as men know it. It may be that he, too, has found whatever note Horus left.”
“That is not sufficient insurance for the Prince. The whole project may miscarry—unless we can reach him.”
“Then go to him quickly!”
“I cannot.”
“One of your famous gateways…”
“They only function within the Midworlds. I draw my power from the tides. I cannot operate beyond. Lady, how did you come here?”
“In my chariot.”
“Of the Ten Invisible Powers?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us use it.”
“I fear—Listen, Mage. You must understand. I am a woman and I love my son, but I also love my life. I am afraid. I fear the place of that conflict. Do not think the less of me if I refuse to accompany you. You may take my chariot and you may ride in it, but you must keep your own company.”
“I think not the less of you, Lady—”
“Then take this pendant. It controls the Ten Powers that drive the chariot, and it will give you additional strengths.”
“Will it function beyond the Midworlds?”
“Yes,” and she slides into his arms, and for a moment his green beard tickles her neck while her familiar gnashes its tiny teeth and knots its tail, twice.
Then she conducts him to her chariot on the roof of the House of the Dead, and he mounts it, holds high the pendant in his right hand, becomes for a moment part of a cleverly contrived tableau within a red glass bottle, is then a distant twinkle in the heavens Isis
watches.
Shuddering, she retreats to the places of the dead, to dwell again upon the one whom she fears to face, who is even now battling the Nameless.
Vramin stares ahead with eyes of jade. Points of yellow light dance within them.
To The Place of Fire
Behind Vramin’s eyes is the vision distilled.…
There stands the Prince, downward staring. The surface of the world’s afire. On the prow of the Prince’s boat stands the beast whose body is armor, whose rider sits unmoving, gleaming, also facing the place of conflict. The crossbow approaches. The cockleshell swings forward. The Hammer is cocked, snaps forward. Then, rag-tail ablaze, the comet comes forth, glowing, brightening as it races onward.
Somewhere, a banjo is plucked as Bronze rears and the head of the General swivels over his left shoulder to face the intruder. His left hand jerks toward him and Bronze continues to rear, up onto his hindmost legs and then springs away from the Prince’s vessel. Three strides only are taken. Mount and rider vanish. There comes a haziness, a crinkling, and the stars dance in that corner of the sky as though they were reflections within an agitated pool. The comet is caught up in this wind that is Change, becomes two-dimensional, is gone. Pieces of the broken crossbow continue on along the path the vessel had followed when whole. The cockleshell heads toward the surface of the world, vanishes amid the smoke and the dust, the flames. For a long while, the entire tableau is a still life. Then the cockleshell streaks away. It now contains three occupants.
Vramin tightens his hand upon the piece of bloody light, and the Chariot of Ten turns to pursue.
The conflict rages upon the surface of the planet. The globe seems a liquid and boiling thing, changing shape, spurting forth fiery fountains. There comes a series of enormous blazes and a mighty shattering. The world comes apart. There is brightness, mighty, mighty, and dust, confusion: Fragmentation.
Behind the jade eyes of Vramin, within which dance the yellow lights, there is this vision.
The Abyss
Hands clasped behind his back, the Prince Who Was A Thousand considers the destruction of the world.
The broken body of the world, its members splintered and crushed, rotates beneath him, flattening, elongating, burning, burning, burning.
Now he watches through an instrument as he orbits the ruin, an instrument like a pink lorgnette with antennae. Occasionally, there is a click and the antennae twitch. He lowers it, raises it again, several times. Finally, he puts it aside.
“What is it that you see, my brother?”
He turns his head, and the dark horse shadow is at his side.
“I see a living point of light, caught up in that mass down there,” he says. “Twisted, shrunken, weakly pulsing, but still alive. Still living…”
“Then our father has failed.”
“I fear so.”
“This thing must not be.”
And Typhon is gone.
Now, as Vramin pursues the cockle of Anubis, he sees the thing for which there is no understanding.
Upon the blasted heap of elements that was a world there comes now a dark spot. It grows, amidst the light, the dust, the confusion, grows until its outline becomes discernible:
It is a dark horse shadow that has fallen upon the rubble.
It continues to grow until it achieves the size of a continent.
Rearing, the dark horse is rampant over all. It swells, it expands, it lengthens, until the wreckage of the entire planet is contained within it.
Then it is framed in flame.
Nothing lies within the blazing silhouette. Nothing whatsoever.
Then the flames subside and the shadow shrinks, retreating, retreating, running down a long, absolutely empty corridor.
Then there is nothing.
It is as if the world had never existed. It is gone, finished, kaput, and the Nameless Thing That Cries In The Night along with it. And now, Typhon, too, is gone.
A line comes into Vramin’s head: “Die Luft ist kuhl und es dunkelt, und ruhig fliesst der Rhein.” He does not recall the source, but knows the feeling.
Bloodbolt held on high, he pursues the god of death.
Ship of Fools
Awakening, slowly, manacled spread-eagle fashion to a steel table, bright lights stabbing down through his yellow eyes like electric needles within his brain, Set groans softly and tests the strength of his bonds.
His armor is gone, that pale glow in the corner might be the star wand, his shoes that walk upon everything are not to be seen.
“Hello, Destroyer,” says the wearer of the glove. “You are fortunate to have survived the encounter.”
“Madrak…?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I can’t see you. Those lights.…”
“I’m standing behind you, and those lights are only for purposes of preventing your use of temporal fugue to depart this vessel before we are ready to permit it.”
“I do not understand.”
“The battle waxeth furious below. I am watching it through a port now. It looks as if you have the upper hand. In a moment, the Hammer That Smashes Suns will strike again, and you will of course escape it as you did the last time—by means of the fugue. That is why we were able to pick you up a few moments ago, just as Anubis did in days long gone by. The fact that you did appear testifies to what will happen shortly. There! Osiris strikes, and the Hammer begins its descent—Anubis! Something is wrong! There is some sort of change occurring! The Hammer is… is… gone…”
“Yes, I see it now,” comes the familiar bark. “And Osiris, too, has gone away. The Steel General—he it was.”
“What shall we do now?”
“Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. This turn is even better than we had hoped. Set’s occurrence recently by means of the fugue testifies that some cataclysmic event will still shortly occur. —Does it not, Set?”
“Yes.”
“Your final clash will doubtless destroy the world.”
“Probably. I didn’t stay to watch.”
“Yes, there it goes,” says Madrak.
“Wonderful! Now we have Set, Osiris has been disposed of, and the Steel General is no longer available to pursue us. We have Thoth precisely where we want him. Hail, Madrak, new Lord of the House of Life!”
“Thank you, Anubis. I didn’t think it could be that easily accomplished—but what of the Nameless?”
“Surely it must have fallen this time. What of it, Set?”
“I don’t know. I struck it with the full force of the wand.”
“Then everything is tied up neatly. Now hear me, Set. We wish you no ill, nor will we harm your son Thoth. We rescued you when we could have left you to rot—”
“Then why have you secured me thus?”
“Because I know your temper and your power, and I wished to reason with you before freeing you. You might not have granted me sufficient opportunity, so I insured it myself. I wish to deal with Thoth through you—”
“Lord!” cries Madrak. “Observe the ruined world! There comes over it a monstrous shadow!”
“It is Typhon!”
“Yes. What can he be doing?”
“What do you know of this, Set?”
“It means that I failed, and that somewhere amid the ruins a Nameless Thing still cries in the night. Typhon is completing the job.”
“There is fire, master, and—I cannot look upon the emptiness which occurs—”
“Skagganauk Abyss!”
“Yes,” says Set. “Typhon is Skagganauk Abyss. He evicts the Nameless from the universe.”
“What was the Nameless?”
“A god,” says Set, “an old god, I’m sure, with nothing left to be divine about any more.”
“I do not understand…” says Madrak.
“He jests. But what of Typhon? How shall we deal with him?”
“You may not have to,” says Set. “What he has done has probably resulted in his own exile from the universe.”
“Then
we have won, Anubis! We have won! Typhon was the only thing you feared, was he not?”
“Yes. Now the Midworlds lie forever within my hands.”
“And mine, don’t forget!”
“Of course not. So tell me, Set—You see the ways the stars are drifting—Will you join with us? You will become the right hand of Anubis. Your son can be a Regent. He may name his own job, for I do not undervalue his wisdom. What say you?”
“I must think of this thing, Anubis.”
“To be sure. Take your time. Realize, however, that I am now invincible.”
“And you realize that I have defeated God in battle.”
“It could not have been God,” says Madrak, “or He would not have been defeated!”
“No,” says Set. “You saw Him at the end. You witnessed His power. And even now, He is not dead, only in exile.”
Madrak lowers his head, covers his face with his hands. “I do not believe you! I cannot…”
“But it is true, and you have been party to this thing, oh recreant priest, blasphemer, apostate!”
“Silence, Set!” cries Anubis. “Don’t listen to him, Madrak. He sees your weakness, as he sees the weaknesses of all things he encounters. He seeks to draw you onto a battlefield of another sort, one where you struggle against yourself, to be beaten by the guilt he has contrived for you. Ignore him!”
“But what if he speaks the truth? I stood by and did nothing—even profited by—”
“Indeed you did,” says Set. “The guilt is mainly mine, but I bear it with pride. You were party to the action, however. You stood by and watched, thinking of the profit that would come to you, while He whom you served was beaten to His knees—”
Anubis strikes him a terrible blow that rips the flesh of his cheek.
“I take it that you have made up your mind, and this is your answer: to try to turn Madrak against me. It will not work. He is not so gullible as you think—are you, Dad?”
Madrak does not answer, but continues to stare out the port.
Set struggles against his bonds but cannot loose them.
“Anubis! We are pursued!”
Creatures of Light and Darkness Page 14