The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  “Thumil?” The voice was a shrill lament. “Say it isn’t true. Say it isn’t…”

  Thumil forced himself to look at the Nameless Dwarf. His jaw hung slack and his eyes were transfixed. The black helm was overlaid with the phantom of his friend’s face, a twinkle in those mournful eyes. But it was gone in a flash, replaced by dead eyes and a bloody visage, a visage that was better off encased in scarolite forever.

  “I’m sorry,” Thumil said. “Councilor Grago speaks the truth.”

  The helmed head slumped forward, those mighty shoulders shuddering. “Then kill me. Please, please kill me.”

  “See!” Grago said. “Even he agrees.”

  Aristodeus spun on his heel, face red with fury. “Remorse, you numbskull. Don’t you recognize repentance when you hear it? Thought you dwarves read the Liber—no, wait, what was it Maldark called the scriptures? What did they used to be called on Earth?” He snapped his fingers and screwed his face up in concentration. “Damn. It’s on the tip of my—”

  “No,” Grago said. “No, we don’t read those scriptures. Not after what the Fallen did.”

  “Imbecile!” Aristodeus said. “Typical. Typical of you dwarves. Always throwing out the baby with the—”

  “Isn’t that what you did, philosopher?”—A voice like rustling leaves. “Weren’t you once a man of faith, before you became too clever, even for the Supernal Father?”

  A gale tore through the chamber, whipping up a vortex of sparks, flashes, tongues of flame. The whole coalesced into a cool conflagration then burst with the brilliance of a thousand suns.

  Thumil’s arm covered his eyes, and he instinctively dropped to his knees. Everything behind his eyelids was white, then red, then black as the Void and dotted with pinpricks of silver. He blinked over and over, shaking his head and slowly removing his arm. Where the vortex had exploded, now stood a man robed in brown, sunlight bleeding from beneath an all-enveloping cowl.

  “So, here at last is our troublesome Nameless Dwarf. A time will come when the name that is not a name will be as cursed as the Ravine Butcher’s, should we allow him to live. About time. About time the dwarves grew a backbone.”

  “Nothing is predetermined,” Aristodeus said. “You know that as well as I, Archon.”

  It was like standing beneath the most awe-inspiring mountain, or gazing upon the endless ocean, such was the feeling of dread that rolled off the being. Thumil didn’t know whether or not to throw himself to his knees and beg forgiveness for a life not always well-lived. In the end, he took his cue from Cordy, who merely snorted and glared daggers.

  Grago must have done the same. He puffed up his chest and stuck his nose in the air. “Who the shog are you?”

  “Silence!” There was thunder in the voice that time, and Grago dropped to his belly, along with half the council.

  Aristodeus shook his head and held up a hand. “This, dear dwarves, is the Archon. If you still read the scriptures, you’d get some sort of idea of the manner of being he is.”

  Flames licked around the edge of the Archon’s hood. “You grow too familiar, philosopher.”

  “Quite right,” Aristodeus said. “And we can’t have that, can we? We all know what familiarity breeds.”

  The Archon rose into the air and started to circle Aristodeus. “You have picked up the ways of your master, it seems. That doesn’t bode well for you extricating yourself from his trap.”

  Aristodeus jabbed the stem of his pipe at the Archon, thought better of it and put it away. “Not my master, and you just watch. I’ll pry open the jaws of his trap sooner or later. Have faith.”

  The Archon let out a laugh like a gust of wind. “Faith is something I have never lacked. I wish you could say the same. You are too proud, philosopher, just the way he likes them.”

  “Being right doesn’t make one proud. Personally, I’d be more concerned about a Supernal Being who considers himself judge, jury, and executioner, wouldn’t you, Thumil?”

  Thumil groaned internally. What did Aristodeus have to go and include him for? He turned his palms up and shrugged. Cordy elbowed him in the back, and he probably deserved it.

  “Now is not the time to lose your tongue, Councilor Thumil,” Aristodeus said. “There was a vote, remember?”

  Grago raised his head from the floor. “Technically, no.”

  “What, your fingers were crossed?” Cordy said.

  It looked to Thumil like she was going to kick the prostate councilor for a moment.

  “Uhm, I must just say,” Old Moary said—Thumil was impressed to see he was still standing, a be-socked big toe curling from beneath his robe— “there was indeed a majority vote to stay execution. If you ask me—”

  “Thank you, Councilor Moary,” Aristodeus said. “Age and wisdom go hand in hand like—”

  “You are the voice of this council?” the Archon said, drifting up close to the ancient councilor.

  “Well, uh, no. I mean, not really. I’ve just been on the council longer than the rest, but our primary is Councilor Thumil.”

  Thumil’s guts turned to mush, and his legs threatened to buckle. Cordy pinched his arse, which did the trick.

  The Archon turned on him, ire suppurating from his cowl in fingers of fire. “Heed my words, Councilor Thumil. If this Nameless Dwarf lives, thousands will die. He is a pawn of the Demiurgos.”

  “Not if I keep him in stasis,” Aristodeus said. “Nothing besides my own voice will be able to rouse him.”

  “You know this philosopher well?” the Archon said.

  Thumil closed his eyes against the glare. He desperately wanted to see if the Archon had a face, but the brightness was blinding. “Not well,” he said.

  “And you would trust him?”

  Thumil gave a sideways look at Aristodeus. “No.”

  “There…” the Archon said, turning on the philosopher.

  “But no one’s killing my friend.”

  Cordy gave his arm a squeeze. It didn’t matter to Thumil that this god-like being could probably blast him from existence; with Cordy on his side, he’d always have a fighting chance.

  Aristodeus coughed into his fist and gave a curt nod.

  The Archon’s hood shimmered with pent up flame but then settled back to a dull brown. “I cannot—will not—force compliance. Very well, but on your head be it. After all, it is your head to lose.”

  Fingers of ice ran their way over Thumil’s flesh. Cordy tensed, her grip suddenly a vise that would never let go.

  “With all due respect,” Grago said, pushing himself up onto his knees, “Councilor Thumil does not speak for—”

  But the Archon was gone, leaving only swirling dust motes in his wake, and then even they settled. The air grew heavy, and it felt to Thumil as though the ceiling were pressing down on him, causing his shoulders to stoop.

  “Well,” Grago said, making it all the way to his feet, “I still say we—”

  “No,” Thumil said, with more authority than he felt, and then he added more gently, “No.”

  Aristodeus caught his eye and nodded. “Come,” he said to the Nameless Dwarf. “Time for your rest.”

  “Rest?” came the voice from within the helm. “Shouldn’t there be a snifter of mead first?”

  “Perhaps when you awaken.”

  Thumil thought Aristodeus was going to add, “If you awaken.” After all, it was no ordinary rest he was talking about. If things didn’t change, if Aristodeus couldn’t—or wouldn’t—find a way to eliminate the threat of the black axe, his old friend faced an eternity chained in a locked cell, unable to move a muscle; unable even to breathe.

  The Nameless Dwarf shrugged. “Oh well. Can’t say fairer than that.” He let out an exaggerated yawn and stretched his thickly muscled arms above his head. “Don’t suppose you fancy joining me, lassie?” he said to Cordy.

  She chuckled, but her eyes were damp.

  “Probably for the best,” the Nameless Dwarf said as Aristodeus walked him from the chamber. “Don’
t want to set the bar too high for Thumil now, do we?”

  “Goodbye, my friend,” Thumil muttered into his beard.

  The councilors were all up on their feet once more and clamoring for his attention. Their questions were like the cascading waters of the falls that fed the Sanguis Terrae in the depths of the ravine, forcing him in on himself, drowning him. Only Cordy’s hand anchored him, gave him the strength to remain standing. She leaned in close to his ear, her breath warm on his cheek.

  “I am with you, my love,” she said. “Now and forever.”

  “I know, dear,” he replied, even as a gulf of blackness opened up within his mind and threatened to swallow him. He patted Cordy’s hand, shuddering as he sucked air through gritted teeth. “He was my friend, wasn’t he?” He was starting to wonder. Was it possible that the past had vanished along with the name, and all that remained was the slaughter and the dwarf in the scarolite helm?

  Cordy turned his face so that he had to look her in the eye. She was weeping openly now, and her lips quivered as she spoke. “Yes, my love, he was your friend. He was our friend.”

  She pulled him to her breast, shutting out the insistent councilors, cocooning him against the horrors he had witnessed.

  —on your head be it.

  The image of a baby, head dashed against the hard stone of Arx Gravis, sprang to life behind his eyes. Thumil groaned and tried to nestle further into Cordy’s bosom.

  After all, it is your head to lose.

  THE END OF WORLDS

  The Homestead, Earth

  Year of the Reckoning: 908

  Hands gripped Shader’s arm and helped him to his feet. His vision swirled red and blue, slashed into ribbons by streaks of argent and gold. He blinked until his eyes regained their focus on the ruddy plateau of the Homestead beneath his feet, and above, the sapphire skies of Sahul. Silver glinted from the heads of pikes and spears, and the aureate sun glared down with a heat that seared its displeasure deep into his flesh.

  “Barek,” he said, shuddering as he faced the youth. “You made it.”

  Rhiannon was approaching, leading Sammy like the last walk of the damned and trailing Callixus’s black sword.

  A sea of troops looked toward him as if he might have some answer, might be able to tell them all was not lost. The Emperor Hagalle pushed to the front, glaring his unspoken accusations. General Starn was at his side, all stiff and proper, bleeding from a score of wounds and looking like he’d collapse if honor would let him. Behind them came the Ipsissimus, stooped and broken, like a man who no longer believed in salvation.

  “So, it’s over, then,” Barek stated matter-of-factly. “This is the end of all things.”

  Dave the Slave hobbled into view, his hunchback a swollen malignancy full to the bursting with poison. He pointed at Shader and cried, “He has doomed us.”

  Shader’s head was spinning from the concussion, his thoughts rising and breaking like waves on a reef. If only he’d struck Gandaw when he’d had the chance. If only he hadn’t hesitated—

  “Deacon?” Rhiannon said, releasing Sammy’s hand and taking hold of Shader’s face. “Deacon?”

  Shader’s eyes tracked Sammy’s progress as the boy wandered away from his sister and went into the embrace of the huge snake man. At least one of the Hybrids had survived.

  “I’m sorry, Rhiannon.” —For everything. For all you’ve suffered.

  “Is it true?” She pressed her face close to his, and all he could think of was the sweetness of her breath. “Have we lost?”

  Shader pulled away, gestured to the sky where the throne had been. He was tired. Too tired to care about the end of Creation. But all eyes were on him, like he was the world’s last hope. He had to say something, even if it was to confirm their greatest fears.

  “Gandaw’s beyond our reach now.”

  “You did this!” Dave inveighed. “You were given a chance—”

  The hunchback dropped to his knees with a thud, and Shadrak the Unseen emerged from behind him.

  “Kidney punch,” the assassin said. “Which is mild, considering what I thought of doing.”

  Still alive, then, after he’d been flung across the ridge by some unseen force. Like a cockroach, Shader thought. Even if they were too late, and Creation fell, Shadrak would no doubt still be there, hunkered down in some nook or cranny in Gandaw’s brave new world.

  “Reckon I can find him,” Shadrak said. “Sektis shogging Gandaw. But I don’t know how much time we have.”

  And then Aristodeus was there, rubbing his beard like he always did when considering an interesting conundrum. He smiled at Shader, but there was no warmth in his eyes. If anything, he looked like a man tormented, a man who had staked his entire existence on one last throw of the die.

  “You clearly don’t understand the nature of the beast,” he said. “Gandaw has planned this for millennia, and he’s not about to mess it up by rushing. He has instruments that have mapped Creation one strand at a time, all so he can plug the data into his algorithms for the Unweaving. The only thing missing was an energy source big enough for the task.”

  “So it’s over,” Rhiannon said.

  “If we do nothing.” Aristodeus’s words may have been meant for the Ipsissimus, but if they were, they were wasted. The Ipsissimus seemed lost in a world of his own, as absent as the Nous he was supposed to represent. “If you do nothing.” Aristodeus spoke the words directly to Shader, and something was communicated between them: no more than a chill in Shader’s spine, a knotting of his stomach, and the vague feeling that something like this had happened before.

  Every frayed nerve in Shader’s body screamed recognition, but his concussed mind just threw up blurs and rumors.

  Aristodeus’s eyes narrowed. They were bluer than the sky and glimmered like ice in the arctic sun. The philosopher’s bald head was wrinkled with concern, but Shader had the sense it was not for his welfare. There was some secret, something Aristodeus wasn’t saying, and Shader’s whole being held the answer. But still his mind stalled, like a horse balking at a jump. Whatever it was, it was there, but on the far side of an unfathomable abyss.

  The philosopher stepped away, and Shader’s nerves quieted. His head was pounding from where he’d struck it when he tumbled down the ridge. The sun’s scorching heat wasn’t helping any. Ain, he was dry. When had he last had something to drink?

  I think I can find him—Was it Shadrak who’d said that?

  The albino was watching Aristodeus with a coolness that went deeper than mere curiosity at the philosopher’s appearance out of nowhere, or the knowledge he claimed of the end of all things. Shadrak must have sensed Shader’s gaze, for his pink eyes narrowed, demanding some kind of action. Shader looked at the others, as if their presence, their tangibility, might rub off on his thoughts.

  Rhiannon had lost something—something as vague and indefinable as Shader’s memories. She looked older somehow, face honed by conflict, eyes darker, tainted by what they’d seen. The color had drained from her lips, and her complexion had sallowed beyond its wan mystique, now appearing sickly, pallid like the dead of Sahul who first Cadman and then Gandaw had commanded against them. Walking corpses, necrotic ghouls. Maybe their undeath was contagious.

  Barek looked numb from exhaustion and lucky to be alive. There was hardly any white left on his tabard, so drenched was it with his own blood and the putrid gore of the undead. His young eyes held the same dullness that had deadened the Ipsissimus’s since the loss of his Monas and his failure to lift a finger to prevent it.

  Shader’s face tightened, and he sucked in air through clenched teeth. His anger hadn’t passed, but he no longer knew if it was directed at the Ipsissimus, or at the deity who demanded pacifism at the point of a sword. Did he have the right to be angry at Nous, the son of Ain the Concealed, the one true Lord who was no-thing? But Nous was something. The more Shader trod the path of the Templum, the more he realized Nous was utterly human in his contradictions and paradoxes, in his br
oken promises and his ability to disappoint.

  So, it’s over, Rhiannon had said—for the worlds, Earth and Aethir. Ain’s teeth, how many other worlds were threatened by Gandaw’s Unweaving? And did it just involve the whole span of space, or would time be unpicked, too? All so that Sektis Gandaw could be his own origin, the still point of a perfect creation, a creation with no room for any of those left standing atop the Homestead, those who had given their lives defending the bedrock of existence. Those who expected something of Shader, something he didn’t know how to give.

  Worlds were going to fall. Creation itself was poised for oblivion.

  If you do nothing, Aristodeus had said. But what could Shader do? Hadn’t he already had his chance and failed just as completely as the Ipsissimus?

  Dave the Slave remained on his knees. His mouth was still, but accusation burned in his eyes. Out of them all, the crazy prophet had expected the most from Shader. Ain only knew what he would do now that Shader had stayed his hand, refused to obey the ‘Voice of Nous.’ Shader couldn’t hold onto Dave’s eyes. They were the myopic eyes of a lunatic, a man whose faith was a dangerous obsession.

  Looking away from Dave, Shader’s gaze swept the battlefield, the tabletop summit of the Homestead, most sacred site of Sahul’s Dreamers. The dead lay in piles that could have been spread out to cover a large field. Some were now twice dead, the remains of the disinterred automatons commanded by Sektis Gandaw. The others, mingled in bloody heaps, were sworn enemies driven together by desperation: the armies of Nousia and Sahul. Thousands dead, a fraction of that remaining, all waiting for Shader to act, to tell them there was still hope.

  Finally, the giant snake-headed Hybrid spoke, all the while hugging the boy, Sammy, against his massive chest. Little Sammy Kwane, Rhiannon’s brother, now weather-beaten and half-naked in the manner of the Dreamers.

  “You have the Archon’sss sssword. Perhapsss there isss yet sssome hope.”

  Shader looked down at the gladius still snug in his grip, like it wanted to be there. The Sword of the Archon, won in the tournament in Aeterna. Isn’t that what Aristodeus had prepared him for as a child?