Destroyer of Worlds kots-3

by Mark Chadbourn

  'No time for that now,' Callow said. 'The great Lord gave us brains to use in situations like this. Brute strength is all well and good, but it pales behind the advantages of the grey matter, used well and wisely.'

  He led them on a fast, winding path through the grave markers until he came to a mausoleum that had been marked with a red cross on the door.

  'What's so special about this one?' Mallory asked.

  'These are all houses of the dead,' Callow replied, 'but some are home to worse things than the dearly departed. Once I open the door, venture no further than the light reaches into the dark. Stand on either side of the door, and when your friend enters, emerge victorious!'

  At first Mallory wasn't convinced, but when he read the repressed fear in Callow's face as he wrenched the stone door open, he stepped in with Caitlin right behind.

  Callow had been right. The light died unnaturally quickly and sound was deadened close to the source. Beyond the few inches of grey illumination around the doorway, the darkness swam like oil. It had dimension, and texture, and gave off a quality that made them feel dread.

  As they stood on either side of the door looking into the dark, their skin prickled and they had the unmistakable sense of something looking back at them. Their fears were confirmed when a faint voice whispered, 'Closer.' There was nothing inherently threatening in the tone, but it chilled them nonetheless.

  The Hortha was in the mausoleum before they realised, moving low like an animal, rapidly searching the dark depths. Caitlin planted her axe in its back to disable it while they both darted out. Callow slammed the door shut the moment they were in the light.

  The sounds that emanated from the mausoleum were chilling: a high-pitched shriek, a frantic rustling, something crashing from wall to wall and a wild thrashing noise. Then an unnerving silence.

  Callow gave a deep bow. 'No more will your enemy trouble you.'

  'What was in there?' Caitlin asked.

  Callow blanched and held up a hand. 'Speak of the devil and he will appear. In some aphorisms, there is a deeper truth. Trust the wisdom I have learned in hedgerow, field and forest: there are times when it is best to speak, and times when silence must rule. Shall we?' He swept an arm to guide their way. 'And, perhaps, a word of thanks?'

  Caitlin, who had once again lost the dark sheen of the Morrigan, said with a smile, 'Thank you, Mr Callow, you were a great help.'

  'And I intend to carry on in that manner. Indeed, it is my hope to make myself indispensable to you, my travelling companions. Oh, the joys of being part of a band once more! Let us walk on and not look back!'

  But Mallory couldn't resist one final glance at the silent mausoleum, and at the others that lay all around, and wondered what other threats lay hidden in the mist.

  8

  The blizzard continued to tear its bitter path between the mountain peaks as Laura became the final surviving member of their band to make the precarious journey from the last section of the shattered bridge to the terrace that lay before the Groghaan Gate. The mood was desperate. Church, Veitch, Ruth and Shavi stared into the middle distance, while Tom sat in a nook in the rocks, smoking.

  Veitch extended a hand to help Laura up onto the terrace. 'I know we've given each other a hard time,' he said awkwardly, 'but you saved us here. And I wanted to say, you know, thanks.'

  'All right, tattoo-boy — don't get all misty on me. Just doing my job.'

  They exchanged a moment of silent communication before Shavi came over. 'I am concerned about Church,' he whispered. 'The loss of the Two Keys, Virginia and Hunter has hit him hard.' He glanced back at Church, who had one hand on his forehead, deep in thought. 'I am afraid that despair might be setting in. He fears the mission is already lost. And-'

  'And you're worried this might be the point when he stops being Church and starts becoming the Libertarian,' Veitch continued.

  Shavi nodded.

  'That's awful,' Laura said. 'I mean, if one thing had to tip him over the edge, it would be this, right? But still… God.' She looked away, chewing a lip.

  'I'll keep an eye on him,' Veitch said, 'and if I see anything dodgy…' He steeled himself. 'I'll do what I have to do.'

  Hugging her arms around her for warmth, Ruth called them over. 'We can't stand around here talking — we'll freeze to death.'

  'Mate, you want to carry on?' Veitch said to Church.

  Church inspected the Groghaan Gate arching up at least twenty feet above their heads, the top lost in the snowstorm. It was constructed of some unknown material that sparkled like the sun, and from it came a feeling of electricity. 'What else can we do? Go back and die? Go on and die?'

  Behind him, Shavi, Veitch and Laura looked at each other uneasily.

  Church reached out to the shimmering arch, his fingers tingling as they brushed the warm surface. 'This is marvellous. The Drakusa must have passed through here every day, between Winter-side and Summer-side. Such an amazing thing to do, moving between worlds. They must have thought they owned everything. Kings of the world. And now they're gone.' He turned back to the others defiantly. 'We might not be able to win, but that doesn't mean we give up. We're going to make life a misery for the Enemy. We're going to show it what it means to stand for Existence. What it means to have the Pendragon Spirit. What it means to be a Fragile Creature. We're going to tear the whole damned thing down. From this point on, this is a suicide mission. As long as we know that, we're not going to be disappointed how it turns out.'

  The others nodded without a moment's thought.

  'No happy endings,' he said, before turning back to the gate. 'Let's go.' He stepped through the arch and with a shimmer he was gone.

  Chapter Five

  Diaspora

  1

  In the blistering morning sun, the sands beyond the jungle's edge shimmered in a heat haze that gave an illusory quality to the rolling, golden world. From the shade of a canopy on the terrace, Church watched the barrens, deep in thought, smelling the dry desert wind as he sipped the hot, spicy drink brought to him by the scaled cafe owner.

  Through the haze, the figure of the Burning Man glowed like coals in smoke, still there, always there, but closer now, looming so large Church was convinced he would soon be able to feel the heat.

  From the moment they had stepped through the Groghaan Gate, the journey had been hard, but at least the exhaustion and the strife had left little space for black thoughts. The Halls of the Drakusa on Summer-side had been reclaimed by the landscape an age ago. They rested beneath a grassy mound in the northlands beyond the foothills of the mountains, a few crumbling stones all that remained on the surface to mark the glory of the once-mighty Drakusa, and even they were so weathered that they were easily mistaken for an outcropping of natural rock.

  They spent an hour in the halls mourning their dead. Though she tried to hide it behind her flinty exterior, Laura's devastation at the loss of Hunter was clear, and she had to be persuaded by all to continue, in Hunter's name. Never once did she cry, though for a while she disappeared into an antechamber to be alone with her emotions; she sat silently in the centre of the room, her head bowed, her features hidden.

  All of them felt grief for the deaths of Miller, Jack and Virginia, far beyond what their loss meant for the mission. The others were surprised to see that even Veitch was touched, particularly by the passing of Miller, whom he considered a friend, he said, even though he had never expressed it. At the end of the hour, their hearts were still heavy, but they found the strength to go on.

  Following the deep, lush river valleys that offered dense tree-cover and deep shadow, they moved steadily north, across the stinking, haunted marshlands where the insects were bigger than fists and carried a poisonous punch that could paralyse and kill; into the tropical jungle where the night was filled with drums and the howls of hunting beasts. They avoided the mysterious tribes who worshipped brutish idols and came and went from the dense interior like ghosts, just as they had avoided the war-bands of the Enemy t
hat roamed across every part of the land, harrying and slaughtering. After the death of the Iron Slaughterman, they knew Janus would have despatched others with the specific task of tracking them down and destroying them, and on one occasion they had seen something terrible silhouetted against the moon on a ridge, but nothing had located them. It was only a matter of time.

  And finally they had come to the Court of Endless Horizons, abandoned by the Tuatha De Danaan as they raced towards sanctuary at the Court of the Soaring Spirit. Now it was filled with hundreds of thousands of refugees from every part of the Far Lands, dwarfish mountain-dwellers and the willowy, silver-eyed hunters of the western plains, the lizard-skinned people from the river deltas, and other, stranger beings that rarely ventured from the shadows. All swarmed on the streets, or crammed into buildings in the sweltering heat, race upon race sharing the same space, begging for food, sweating, fighting, haggling for transport or the promise of safe passage; all of them united by their fear of an Enemy that was alien to them in every aspect, a threat that exhibited no compassion, not even the slightest empathy, who could not be cajoled, or pleaded with, or flattered; who slaughtered with a devastating dispassion. Even in the Far Lands with its extremes of emotion and distorted motivations, this was an anomaly.

  The city itself was a gleaming monument to the glory of the Tuatha De Danaan. Soaring towers of brass and gold reached far above the steaming jungle that surrounded it on three sides, kept at bay by walls of beaten copper and steel, a sculpture of grace and beauty in the heart of a primal setting. A sleek futurism in the materials and design of the buildings was set against an almost medieval confusion of tiny, twisting streets and alleys leading off the broad, leafy main thoroughfares, yet somehow the incongruity worked. The quarter nearest the gate through which they had entered was still rich with the scents of the spices that used to be stored in the warehouses along the wall, and the heavy, ornate incense-burners that swung from the lamps along the streets suggested the entire court would once have been filled with beautiful aromas.

  In its time, it must have been a breathtaking place, Church guessed; now it stank and seethed, filled with the hollow hopes of desperate people who knew death was always a step or two away.

  After struggling to live off the land for so many weeks, they thought they would have even more trouble obtaining food in the overpopulated city, but they encountered enough people who were aware of the growing legend of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons to guide them to a place of shelter. Veitch was stunned that their reputation could earn them free food and drink in the rooftop cafe when so many were starving, everything they required given freely, and without obligation.

  Irritable in the heat, Tom joined Church and was instantly presented with a cup of the hot, spicy drink. The waitress, a tall, willowy woman with a forked snake-tongue, bowed. 'True Thomas,' she lisped. 'Your presence here is recognised and welcomed.'

  Tom nodded grumpily. 'It grates on me to be treated like an elite,' he said when the waitress had gone. 'All those people out there suffering and we get free drinks.'

  'It makes them happy,' Church replied. 'They believe in us, and want to hope that we can make things better for them. If that's the least we can do, then it's something. Everyone deserves a little hope to make them happier.'

  Tom snorted. 'Hope is meaningless if there's no chance of it being effected. Otherwise it's just delusion.' He fixed a cold eye on Church. 'Are you losing hope?'

  'I'm not planning the victory party, if that's what you mean. I'm waiting for a sign that there's still some way we can make a difference. The Puck has helped me more than once. Why hasn't he appeared since Winter-side? Because there's nothing we can do?'

  'The universe gives you a helping hand when you put some energy into the process yourself, not when you're sitting back hoping something will just turn up.'

  'We are doing something. The others are out gathering information about the Enemy, the Fortress — they call it the House of Pain around here. What we need right now is a way into it.'

  'And what are you doing?'

  'Thinking.'

  The Morvren had gathered on every treetop around the city; often silent, they were now cawing as if filled with an insatiable hunger. Their number had increased rapidly, and Church didn't know if it was because they were breeding, if the possibility of death that attracted them had grown more intense, or if it was symbolic of the level of threat now facing him. From the rooftop, it looked as if a black shroud had been laid across the steaming jungle.

  'My mistake,' Tom said, blowing on his drink. 'I thought you were doing nothing.'

  'Why hasn't the Libertarian been hounding us?' Church asked.

  'We have been a little elusive.'

  'He's me. He must know what I've done, where I've been. So why doesn't he just turn up out of the blue, slit everyone's throats, dump me in a cell and be done with it?'

  'Time and memory are slippery things,' Tom began edgily. 'We can't trust ourselves. We never quite remember things how they actually were. And time itself is not fixed, you know that. On every occasion you go back, something subtle alters. It might not be enough to change the big events ranged through history like tent-poles supporting the whole damn canvas of everything. Or it might. The Libertarian has to be extremely cautious. He won't want to risk doing anything that might stop him coming into being, so that he winks out like a star at dawn.'

  'It makes my head hurt thinking about it,' Church grumbled.

  'That's because you see things in a linear way, and in terms of simple cause and effect. I've lived with my ragged view of the future for a long time, and I can tell you that nothing is clear, everything shifts and changes like the grains of sand on the beach, and you can never predict which way one will go.'

  'He must think like me, so I've been trying to put myself in his head,' Church continued. 'What does he want? For me to change and become him, I presume. If I don't, he doesn't get to exist. You're right — this whole screwed-up timeline thing is a mess, but if the Libertarian is still around, then what lies ahead guarantees I become him. Things are panning out just as they should, from the Libertarian's point of view, like clockwork. But he's not going to take any chance that I might change events, or that the Puck might push me down another path or something, so he's going to keep manipulating me into situations that will make me become him. Basically, if he's not around, things are going badly. If he is, there's a chance I might be able to put things right.'

  'I don't think it's wholly wise to put yourself into the Libertarian's thought processes. That alone may be leading you towards that destiny.'

  Church sipped his hot drink thoughtfully. 'Another thing: the Blue Fire exists all over our world, if you look closely enough. It's here in the Far Lands, certainly, but not to the same degree. And why isn't this place swarming with Fabulous Beasts? You'd have thought of all places, here would be their true home, where they'd thrive.'

  A hint of a smile flickered on Tom's lips before he wiped it away. 'Yes, I wonder why that is.'

  'I suppose you're not going to tell me.'

  'Where would be the fun in that? Especially when you're doing so well with your thinking,' Tom added caustically.

  'When did things become so difficult?' Church asked after a moment's reflection. 'It used to be so easy, in our world, with the Blue Fire everywhere. Seeing the magic in the world. The choices were clear.'

  Tom's brief glance revealed an unusual hint of tenderness. 'If the choices are clear they are usually false choices. Life is muddy and complex, without any easy answers.'

  'But these days I'm not even sure we're on the right side. I don't know what I'm fighting for any more. I don't know why I'm having to make all these sacrifices.'

  'You've been on the road a long time. You're weary-'

  'It's beyond that. What if the Libertarian is right? People aren't in the world for long. They just want a little security, a few home comforts, time to spend with their loved ones. Is that so bad? All I wa
nt is some time with Ruth, to enjoy what we have. Why should I give that up to keep fighting for something I don't understand any more?'

  Tom made to speak, then caught himself, his expression registering a deep concern. Church was distracted by the sight of the Morvren suddenly taking wing as one, a black cloud that blocked out the sun and cast the whole city into shade.

  What's disturbed them? he wondered.

  2

  The crowd smelled of lime and vinegar and allspice, woodsmoke, bitumen and sulphur, and the hot odour that came off skin on a summer's day. From a feverish dream or a nightmare drawn from nursery storybooks, the inhabitants of the court came in a vast wave, sweeping in eddies around obstacles, fallen bodies, sleeping beasts, surging off each other, too-fast, too-slow, with everywhere and nowhere to go. It was impossible to see more than a couple of feet on any side. Some begged for food, or board, or information, others ran with the hope of a destination or fled some unrevealed threat, fear burning in their faces. Some had murder in their eyes, or the sly desire to make gain from misfortune.

  'Jesus Christ, this is worse than Oxford Street just before Christmas,' Veitch complained as he and Shavi pushed through the throng. Overhead, people hung from windows, two or three crammed into the gap, wailing or yelling to people across the way. The din made his ears hurt.

  'You can almost smell the desperation. These beings have known nothing but always-summer, and now they sense the twilight coming in.'

  'There you go again, feeling sorry for a bunch of people you don't know.' Veitch roughly thrust aside a man rippling with rolls of fat, his clothes sodden with sweat. 'I've missed you. You're my conscience.'

  'And I have missed you, my friend. More than you might know. We were all bereft when we thought you dead after the Battle of London, but I felt as if I had truly lost a brother. A brother more than the brothers of my own family, who disowned me when I failed to follow their path.'