Below them was a wide valley, bisected by the riverbed. The lower parts of the valley were inundated, for the Scaum was blocked. A great topple of stone formed a crude dam, and, behind it, a lake had spread. From the waters rose broken columns, and mossy, topless towers, broken arches, and vacant windows. From their shape, it was clear that the stones forming the dam were nothing other than the houses and towers, fortresses and defensive walls, of what had once been a small city, pulled up by some unimaginable force and heaped into a dike.
Not far from where they stood and observed these melancholy ruins, rose a single standing stone, incised with moss-obscured designs. Here and there, poking through the clumped grass and bushes, rose statues of graceful maidens, now armless, their piquant features blurred with rain. Between these statues ran a roadway of white stone, now green and cracked with overgrowth. Sections of the city walls were still standing, triangular as broken teeth, and not all the houses and mansions of the suburbia were inundated, though all were unroofed, doorless, weed-choked.
Anomus pointed: “That is the stone I recall in my first memories.”
Manxolio approached, leaned precariously from the saddle on the shoulders of his oast, and scraped some of the moss free with a broad-bladed dagger. “This is the City of Sfere, founded in the third year of his reign by the Hero-King Sferendur, and is under the protection of the nine goddesses of Good Fortune, Long Life, and Tranquility. The words of a curse against trespassers who would disturb them is inscribed on the reverse: if I might venture an opinion…” (he gazed in bitter awe at the sheer volume of destruction involved in upending an entire city) “…the curse proved nonoperative.” He twisted in the saddle and looked toward Anomus. “If this is your home, you escaped a decisive disaster.”
Anomus was looking with great curiosity at the ruins. White stones shined in the sunlight. The square foundations of vanished buildings were arranged in rows like a graveyard. Sheep grazed among the broken columns. Down the slope, beneath the lake, could be glimpsed houses and towers, and the concentric stone benches of a great amphitheatre or coliseum, half-buried in mud and waterweed.
“Within myself, I observe merely a blank.” Anomus said, “If this was my home, even the grief I should feel has been taken from me.”
“Your trail ends here,” said Manxolio. “There is nothing more to discover.” Anomus seemed not to hear, and his face was set without expression.
Manxolio felt an unexpected compassion rising in him, like a bubble in the mud, and bursting forth. “Come! Return with me to Old Romarth, and I will, despite my age, make you my apprentice. You will learn the slights and craftsmanship of investigation, and become as watchful as a cat, loyal as a dog, dangerous as an erb! A man to be respected! We can start by learning the strangle-grips to use on a prisoner, which elicit pain, but leave no marks, or only such bruises as admit of ambiguous explanation.”
Anomus said, “I do not quit yet. Whatever stole my essential self did not commit the deed when this disaster befell. When did the river Scaum run dry?”
“Seven years past, no longer.”
Anomus said, “If your arts as an Effectuator can tell us nothing more, then mine as a scholar can do otherwise. Hold forth the Implacable Wand once more: the single question remains to us—to find the source of the invisible pulse the wand detected. Now that we are closer, a clearer sign may eventuate.”
Manxolio and Anomus dismounted, and trod the wintery grass. They came upon a wide square of colored tiles, cracked and faded, in the midst of the grass like an island, covered with an inch or two of stinking, standing water. In the midst was the rubble of a well mouth, clogged with a litter of branches and floating rubbish, and with weathered statues of river-goddesses still tilting dry pitchers above it.
The rains from two days ago apparently had overflowed the well, for now several trickles of water spilled over the cracked lip. Transparent insects with exaggerated legs danced across the stagnant surface, leaving tiny ripples. The image was one of desolation.
“The source is near,” Manxolio reported.
Anomus splashed across the stagnant water, sending irked insects to the air, and plunged his arm into the litter occupying the well mouth. Manxolio saw a glint of metal. In a moment, Anomus returned with an object, no larger than a tambourine.
“Here is a Transmultiangular Peripatetic Analept, flung into a well and abandoned as junk. By mere chance, it fell onto a mat of branches, and was carried to the surface again when the water rose. Who would dispose of such a remarkable artifact in so casual a fashion?”
The object in the hands of the young man was a twisted shape of brass and mirrored crystal, but an eye-defeating visual effect made Manxolio unable to register the shape in his mind. It seemed, from one viewpoint, to be a Penrose triangle, with some sort of strange depth held in the center; but when Anomus twisted it, it folded into a shape like a Moebius strip, a flat circle with a half-twist in it.
Anomus said thoughtfully, “It seems of new fabrication. None of the elements have suffered elution. There is no yellowing of the crystals, no Doppler effect due to expansion of microcosmic venules.”
Manxolio laughed without mirth. “It is yours.”
“In what sense? I would not throw such a thing down a well.”
Manxolio said heavily, “Nonetheless, it is yours. This is an instrument to induce a portcullis into some demon-world beyond the warp and woof of space, or a portage to the transplutonian worlds which whirl through the upper abyss.”
Anomus replied, “It is the end point of the Indigo Path of Instantaneous Motion, which allows for superluminal passage of energy and matter across any distances. The Path, to operate, must be maintained at both ends: there is no fixed anchor established at this end. But how do you know of it?”
“By deduction. And yet you seem, outwardly, to be human; indeed, you have the same color and accent as a man of Old Romarth: but this carried you here from elsewhere. You…” But he stopped, for the Dark Iron Wand was vibrating in his hand.
“What does this mean?” Manxolio asked.
But Manxolio was answered by the Wand itself, which reacted to his words, and imposed knowledge directly into his consciousness: the tension in time-space had reached a cusp, beyond which natural law is inoperative.
The sun passed behind a thin cloud, and, in the dim light, the full moon could be seen faintly in the east, surrounded by stars. The insects, which normally sang when the sun was dim, and the birds, which sang when it was shining, both were silent. The wind itself was still.
Manxolio said, “A supernatural event is occurring!”
The Dead Lord of Sfere
He spoke truly: bells and gongs could be heard tolling from beneath the waters. Beneath the lake, the lifeless buildings now seemed whole, their roofbeams gilded and painted, and lights shined through their stained glass windows, painting the underwater with delicate colors.
While the two men stood in awe, the oast and the blue-feathered horse bellowed and whinnied, and fled away.
Arms of white mist, spangled as if with fireflies, had collected over the lake, then thickened and formed into a transparent figure, robed in shimmering iridium, and bearing a coronet of thirteen moonstones.
It spoke, and even though its voice made no noise, both men understood the meaning without hearing any words. Behold me, the shade and echo and remnant of Sferendur, whose sacrifice founded this fair town.
Anomus knelt, and addressed the disembodied shadow. “Illustrious specter, who am I and whence did I come? By what means might I recall my lost being?”
Again, the strangely wordless meaning was imparted into their understanding.
You are Guyal of Sfere, son of Ghyll, last of my bloodline, last indeed of all my people, foully slain seven years agone. But I name you anew: Guyal of Sferendelume. You are the Curator of the Museum of Man, which by your arts you lifted, huge and weightlesss as a thundercloud, above the regions of the sky and into the ulterior void.
An
omus, or Guyal, listened with intent curiosity, but it was Manxolio who gaped in astonishment. “The Curator!” he whispered in awe.
Longing to soar the starry path of heaven, and with all the gathered knowledge of countless aeons, you followed the wake of the Pharials and the ambitious Clambs who departed Earth; as did the lordly Merioneth ages before them, whose children were remade into pitiless star-gods beyond Antares; and the Gray Sorcerers still earlier, who departed Earth in secret. In the Pleiades, of filial courtesy, you named a virginal and shining world of my name, calling her Sferendelume.
Whereas the Earth has rolled in her orbit so long that the threads of timespace have frayed, allowing dark visitants from the nooks of nether-space to intrude, and the weight of time has overlaid the substance of the world with a patina collected from untold millenniums of fear and human pain—in stark contrast, azure Sferendelume is fresh and unstained, the giant sun Alcyone is dazzling bluish-white and vehement, her littler companion suns bathe the globe with radiance of vermilion, blue, and fulvous gold: and no ear there has heard rumor of the demon realm of La-Er, or the imperturbable hungers of Blikdak of the under-gloom.
The knowledge of the Museum of Man you unhoarded, and built tools and servant-beings to wield them, and the lost star lords from the Cluster of Hyades to the Clouds of Magellan you called to you: the Sacerdotes of forgotten Aerlith, and the Pnumekin, who toiled in the service of the buried kingdoms of a war-torn orb in Argo Navis, you freed and restored their humanity.
When all was prepared for the lost peoples of Earth, and golden mansions readied to receive them, you descended to this globe.
The apparition raised its head, and the nothingness of its eyes blazed with emotion: To your first home of Sfere out of compassion for your father, nine brothers and twelve uncles, you came, to call them to the hither shore of the seas of night. His death you must avenge: that gaes lay I upon you.
To find his slayer, and your lost remembrance, await the monster that approaches, for my appearance has enraged him. Now he comes. And throwing his mantle over his head, the vision evaporated, leaving the lake water roiling and disturbed.
A moment later, and the ringing gongs fell silent; the walls of the drowned city were dark, blind and broken as before.
The Titan
Manxolio said, “There is a tale of Guyal of Sfere, a boy born bereft of wits. In punishment for his endless curiosity, he was sent forth to seek the mythical Museum of Man beyond the lands of the Saponids. What he found there, none know.”
The youth, now called Guyal of Sferendelume, Curator of the Museum of Man, addressed Manxolio Quinc: “Evidently Guyal of Sfere—if I am he—found the Curator and assumed his post.”
“Nothing else could explain the bizarre expanse of your knowledge. Your ancestral specter spoke words of ominous import. It is the titan Magnatz—a name of terror—who destroyed your ancestral home here, and who approaches now.”
“By what do you deduce this?”
“First, many of the craters here look suspiciously like footprints of vast dimensions; second, rumors spread in my city to the effect that the Sorcerer Iszmagn seeks to extort vast wealth from Romarth, feeding on our fear of Magnatz as a vulture feeds on rancid meat; third, I see between the crest of yonder two hills the motion as of a third hill, but this one covered with hair, not trees, and two lakes suspiciously like eyes. Magnatz is upon us!”
“Since we cannot outrun the event, our choices are limited to seclusion, negotiation, and deterrence.”
The noise of the footfalls was like repeated thunder. Like a rising harvest moon, the head of Magnatz hove into view between the hilltops, huge and pale.
Manxolio draw himself to his full height. “What need have we to talk or run? Does this monstrosity not also threaten Romarth? Then he is my foe as well! Have you not restored this dread weapon, the very Implacable Dark Iron Wand itself? One bolt remains, you said! Hah-La! I have no need of two!”
Unlimbering the Wand to its full length, Manxolio flourished it the direction of the monster, whose shoulders and torso were now visible over the hilltops. A secondary aiming-beam lashed out with a finger of red fire, scorching Magnatz slightly along one cheek. Instead of a beam of furious destruction, a whining note issued from the rod, which plaintively dropped in pitch and trailed off.
“Ah,” exclaimed Guyal, “That was unexpected.”
Magnatz roared in fury, and pulled up the crest of a hill to hurl at them. While the titan was still hefting the broken peak aloft, Manxolio called on the Wand and established a zone of lightlessness like a smothering cloud. Both men sprinted with agility: they heard a noise like the end of the world as numberless tons of rock and dirt, trees and topsoil, fell short and missed them. Only gravel like stinging hail smote them.
Manxolio adjusted the Zone of Primary Nigrescence to position it overhead. To them, it was a roof; to the titan, a lake to wade in.
He displayed the Wand to Guyal. “Examine this. What is the error?”
Guyal communed with the instrument. “No error. It is a safety feature. The aiming register senses that the titan has a charmed life, rendering him immune to fire, fear, iron, pain, or directed energy. Magnatz can neither starve, choke, nor drown, because he is surrounded by a system of runic pulses that ward his vitality in nine directions. The rod will not discharge, as the bolt would have merely returned on its flow path, and slain you.”
“Perhaps we could lure him into a pit of eighty fathoms.”
“The plan is commendable in theory, but otherwise not actionable.”
Manxolio said, “Your Analept! I can see that it seethes with eldritch ultra-dimensional energies. Can it blast Magnatz with a spurt of extraordinary fire, or, failing that, open a port to a far world wherein we might end our days, perhaps as unhappy exiles solacing ourselves with exotic native girls and strange unearthly wines, but end our days, lo, long years rather than short minutes hence?”
Guyal twisted the shining object from a square to a cruciform to a triangle, and between the brass bars of the armature there seemed to hang distant stars in a void. “I fear not. The effluvium of nullity is not anchored on this end, and there is no potentium closer than Romarth wherewith to affix it. If I put tension on the strand through overspace, the mass would merely be drawn to the nearest gravitating body. Portage to Sferendelume this cannot presently supply.”
“Useless geegaw! Then what can it do?”
“By itself, it has sufficient lifting force to hale a man, nothing more massive, into the upward spaces.”
But there was no more time for speaking. Large as the funnels of two strangely parallel tornados, the legs of the titan were visible beneath the cloudy zone of darkness, wading toward them, a stormcloud of dust and brush and broken stones at his heels.
Then came a sound like the wind being torn in two, and a mighty truncheon, some huge fasci made of bundled pine trunks, came through the nigrescent zone and smote the ground. But the blow went astray: a hundred feet to the east of the two men, there was a cataclysm; the earth puked up a fountain where the bludgeon struck, and now there was a little, barren valley, half a dozen paces across, filled with steam.
Manxolio looked at the Dark Iron Wand. “Well, perhaps negotiation should have been our first attempt. Was there not a second efficacy you restored to this instrument?”
Guyal did not answer him, for the two men heard the noise of the descending bludgeon and took to their heels. The cloak of darkness under which they cowered permitted the two adventurers, for frantic minutes while they hopped and dodged in wild, eccentric leaps, to evade the thunderous blows of the truncheon of Magnatz.
Guyal hissed over the noise of tumbling stones, “Address him! Mask my motions!” and he ran swiftly toward the huge, creaking feet of the giant.
Manxolio, white-faced with terror, for a moment could not bring himself to speak. Then he saw his fastidiously lacquered and brushed hat, which had fallen from his head in his gyrations, laying in tatters in a smoking crater-m
outh. That image resolved his courage.
He called out, “Magnatz! Heed me! Destroy me not, for I have news that concerns you!”
The truncheon went above the dark cloud, as if readying for another blow, but instead came words, huge and deep, as if a volcano spoke: “What news of little men could concern me? My life is charmed, and nothing can destroy it. Each year I grow in size. I push up mountains with my stride, fill wide valleys with my spew. I am as vast and as terrible as the sea.”
Manxolio drew a shivering breath, clenching his teeth to prevent them from chattering. “All too true, great Magnatz! And yet I have dire news. The Sorcerer Iszmagn cheats you!”
“My brother? Cheats me how?”
“Iszmagn foretells your coming to quaking towns, and extorts from them rich treasures, women of allure, gold and bezants plentiful beyond count. Does he share these assets with you? He bathes in a tub of porphyry filled with steaming milk, while round-hipped virgins feed him delectable grapes and coo amorous ditties to trifle away the nights! What does he do for you? Where is the gold of Magnatz?”
A laugh answered him, like the gust of a hurricane. “Nay, it is I who cheat him! For all his dreadful lore, he flitters away his time chasing dream-bubbles, which he captures in living lenses. At my order, he exacts from men, terrified by the rumor of my coming, all the taxation any emperor might require. The gold and women I take to myself, to use or consume in sport. To him, I leave nothing by baubles and trash! Why, just yesterday, following certain dream-signs, we came upon a star-wanderer and robbed him—but Iszmagn took nothing but worthless stones to float round his head. Worthless! For they could protect no one from the strength of my hands. The wanderer we spared, merely so the curiosity of Iszmagn could be sated, to see how long his amnesia would obtain. Our hope was that the press-gangs of Romarth would throw him in the Cleft for vagrancy.”
Songs of the Dying Earth Page 46