The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  Shader was limping toward the basilica, hand stretched out before him like a blind man’s.

  “Laddie?” Nameless called after him. “The fight’s this way.”

  Trumpets blasted in the distance, and bells started clanging.

  “Go!” Shadrak said. He rolled round the doorway and sprinted for the side-street.

  Albert half-jogged, half-skipped behind him, puffing and wheezing.

  “Shog!” Shadrak said. A mass of pikemen was coming straight at them. He veered across the street to the mouth of a narrow alleyway, and Albert bundled in beside him.

  “Now what?” he said.

  Shadrak held up a hand. “Look.”

  Nameless was goading the cordon of soldiers, running up and slapping his axe against the shield wall and dancing clear before they could jab at him. But it wasn’t him Shadrak was interested in.

  Shader’s splayed fingers shook with tension as he faced the overshadowing basilica. His eyes were closed, his whole body taut.

  “What on earth—?” Albert started, but he was cut off by a yell from inside the basilica, followed by a series of screams.

  Nameless whirled to see what was going on, and the soldiers he’d been taunting did the same. There was a tense moment, punctuated by the thump, thump, thump of footfalls as the pike unit bore down upon them. Then came a sharp thwat, a glint of metal, and a resounding clang. Nameless staggered back as a crossbow bolt ricocheted from his great helm and clattered to the ground. Before he could react, one of the basilica windows shattered outward, and Shader’s sword streaked through the air amid a shower of glass and slapped itself into his palm. Golden light erupted around his body, and Shadrak had to shield his eyes against the glare with his arm. There was more footsteps: faster, moving away from him. He blinked until he could see Albert legging it down the alley.

  The pikemen had slowed to a stunned walk, and the shield wall was more of a scattering of gaping idiots. Shutters were thrown open on a couple o’ buildings overlooking the street, and crossbows poked from the windows.

  Shader held the sword aloft as the blaze spiraled back up into the blade. The stiffness seemed to have left him. He was standing poised on the balls of his feet, and there was no sign of the cuts and bruises that had marred his face. He glanced at Shadrak and nodded, as if to say everything was under control now; that Shadrak could go. Then he spun on his heel and strode straight toward the shield wall. The soldiers tried to reset, but Shader was upon them, and unlike Nameless, there was nothing playful in the way he cut and thrust with the precision of a surgeon.

  The pikemen rushed forward, but Shadrak wheeled back out into the street and let off a couple o’ shots with his pistol. One soldier went down with a hole in his head, and the rest scattered for the scant cover of the buildings.

  “Shader,” he called. “Nameless.”

  All he could see of Shader was the flashing blur of his sword as it rose and fell. Blood sprayed, men screamed, and even when they tried to encircle him, he swayed and struck like a serpent.

  Nameless charged them from the rear, and soon it was a rout. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Shadrak wouldn’t have believed it. There was something unnatural about the two of them—the way they fought. The soldiers broke off and ran, but Shader didn’t stop. Rather than taking the opportunity to get out of there, he went after them, cutting them down from behind.

  Nameless turned the great helm on Shadrak. “Go, laddie. I’ll bring him back.”

  The pikemen were moving again. Shadrak fired, and they ducked back into cover. He cast a quick look at the rooftops, in case his shots had drawn any more attention. Last thing they needed right now was that scutting creature to show up. With a nod to Nameless, he pulled his hood up and sprinted down the alley.

  FALL FROM GRACE

  Screams.

  More screams.

  The tramp of feet.

  A blur of bodies, running, turning. Men, open-mouthed, pleading.

  The spray of blood, hot on his hand, spattering his face.

  The purity. The purpose.

  The soldier at the back whirled, slashed wildly with his shortsword. Shader swayed and lunged, and the man went down. Two more broke away from the pack. One barreled at Shader behind his shield, chopping the air with his sword like a crazed butcher. The gladius tore through the shield as if it were made of paper, sliced guts, and sent a string of crimson arcing to the road. The other threw down his shield and raised his arms in surrender. With a half-turn, Shader back-slashed, already picturing the gore spewing from a ripped throat, but a hand caught his wrist, gripped it like a vise.

  “No, laddie,” Nameless said. “I won’t allow it.”

  The soldier stumbled back, then turned and fled.

  With a flash of movement, Shader snatched the gladius with his other hand and hacked down at the great helm. Nameless smacked it aside with his axe-haft and slammed the flat into Shader’s shoulder, knocking him from his feet. Shader hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up swiping for the dwarf’s midriff. The axe was a blur as it turned aside the sword, and the haft hit Shader between the eyes. With a crack, the back of his head hit the ground, and he dropped the gladius. He blinked up at the dwarf standing astride him, axe slung carelessly over his shoulder.

  “… won’t allow it,” he was saying. “Won’t let you do what I did.”

  Shader rubbed his forehead. It smarted, and already a knot was forming. The ravine. Nameless was talking about the massacre at the ravine. “You remember?” he said. Nous, his hands hurt—the palms—both of them. Felt like they were on fire.

  “Aye, laddie, I remember. Not everything, but more than I’d like.”

  Shader shook his head, tried to find the right words. This wasn’t the same, though, was it? He hadn’t… Nous Almighty, he hadn’t—

  “Enough!” Nameless bellowed.

  Shader pushed himself up onto an elbow. The dwarf wasn’t talking to him.

  The soldiers were regrouping further down the street, locking shields and eyeing each other, as if to say, “Who’s going first?”

  Shader looked at one palm, then the other. The skin was chafed, raw. No, more than chafed: it was blistered.

  A movement out of the corner of his eye made him look up. There was a dark shape on one of the rooftops—sleek and black. He could have sworn it was studying Nameless. It looked like a man, only… He blinked, and in that instant it was gone.

  “I said, enough!” Nameless roared.

  The shield wall buckled and retreated a couple of steps.

  The clatter of arms made Shader look back toward the prison. A ragged pike unit was closing in, drawing confidence with each step. There were at least six bodies in the intervening space: soldiers, bleeding out on the ground; men Shader had cut down in his rage.

  Someone fired a crossbow from an upper window; the bolt glanced off Nameless’ hauberk and clattered to the ground. The dwarf swung round, and for a moment, Shader thought he was going to charge at the building, maybe even wade into the pikemen, but then Nameless reached down and tugged him to his feet.

  “Come on, laddie, let’s get you back. No sense in any more killing.”

  Shader stooped to pick up the gladius. “Back whe—Ouch!” He recoiled, sucking at his scalded fingers. It was like touching a boiling pan. Was it… Was it because…? His mind, his heart, his faith sunk like a stone down to his guts. What had he done? Sweet Nous, what had he—?

  “Now, laddie!”

  The shield wall shuffled forward a step, and the pike unit leveled its weapons and came on with purpose. Another crossbow bolt fizzed through the air and kicked up dust from the road a few feet short of them.

  Shader withdrew his hand into the sleeve of his coat and used it like an oven glove to retrieve the gladius. He fumbled the blade back into its scabbard, just as a cry went up form the shield wall, and it surged forward.

  Nameless grabbed Shader’s arm and dragged him into the mouth of an alley. The pikemen veered as
one, someone yelled a command, and then they charged.

  Nameless slapped Shader on the buttocks with the flat of his axe.

  “Go on, laddie,” he said as he turned to face the onslaught. “I’ll catch you up.”

  ***

  “What do you mean you can’t use it?”

  Aristodeus’s face was red as blood, and spittle flew as he raged; but there was more to it than anger. Shader had never seen the philosopher’s eyes so wide, so bloodshot, so… haunted.

  Thunder rolled outside the window, and lightning sheeted upward into the sky, its flash reflecting in Aristodeus’s sclera, fleetingly giving him the look of the damned.

  “Well?” he said, stabbing a finger at the gladius sheathed at Shader’s hip.

  Shader felt his cheek twitching; felt the muscles of his neck stiffen, bunch up. Despite the fire in the philosopher’s tone, he looked away. What could he say? He needed to think; needed to think about what he’d done…

  Nameless was over at the bar, seated beside another dwarf, who was red-faced for a different reason, a frothing flagon of ale tipped just beneath his bulbous nose. Shader only had a dim recollection of Nameless catching up with him, guiding him along street after street until they reached the comparative safety of the diner.

  Rhiannon hovered by the latrine door, looking green as grass. When he met her glare, she turned away. She sneered at Aristodeus, flicked her eyes over to the bar, and then looked down at her feet. But Shader could still feel her glancing between him and the philosopher. Something was going on; he knew her well enough to see that; but what?

  “So, we’re shogged, is what you’re saying?” Shadrak said. He was leaning back in his chair, feet crossed on a table. He eyed the crust he’d been nibbling, snorted, and tossed it over his shoulder.

  The kitchen doors swung open, and the podgy man in the Ancient-world suit—Albert, they’d called him—backed through them carrying a steaming dish in each hand.

  “Best I could do at such short notice,” he said, turning to see who was listening.

  Silence.

  Shader realized they were all watching him, waiting for a reply. He sought out Nameless, but he found no support in the great helm’s empty eye-slit.

  Aristodeus sucked in a long breath through his teeth. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing I haven’t done,” Nameless said. “Nor most of the people in this room, if I’m right.”

  Aristodeus shot him an irritated glare and then fixed his eyes on Shader once more.

  “I killed them,” Shader said, barely recognizing his own voice.

  “So shogging what?” Shadrak said. “Scuts had it coming. Would’ve done it myself if—”

  “It was more than that,” Aristodeus said, taking a step closer. “You’ve killed before, and the sword didn’t reject you.”

  Shader closed his eyes, tried to think of a way to admit his shame. His faith was a sham. He was no better than his father—no, it was worse than that: Jarl Shader would never have cut down a fleeing foe; would never have tried to kill a man who surrendered. He looked up, drawn once more to Nameless. If the dwarf hadn’t stopped him…

  “It was the rage,” Nameless said. “Same as with me.”

  “No,” Shader said. “Not the same.”

  The dwarf stood. “What’s that supposed to mean, laddie?”

  “This is the Sword of the Archon, not some demon-possessed axe.”

  “Meaning?” Nameless crossed his arms.

  Albert gave a delicate cough. “I take it no one’s hungry, then. Such a waste of good chowder.”

  The dwarf at the bar raised a shaky hand. “Bring it here, sonny, and grab me another beer, while you’re at it.”

  “Meaning, the sin is all mine,” Shader said.

  Rhiannon scoffed. “Here we go again.”

  Shader flashed a look at her, and she instantly lowered her eyes and pulled up a seat at the bar on one side of the drunken dwarf. Nameless returned to his stool on the other side, and Shader was dimly aware of Albert plonking down the food and complaining as he filled a tankard from a keg.

  “Me, too,” Rhiannon said, rubbing her stomach and wincing. “Sooner chance it than listen to any more of this shite.”

  “And me,” Nameless said. “Not that I can drink in this thing—” He rapped the side of the great helm then delivered an almighty slap to the other dwarf’s back. “—but it’s yours if you’ll lighten the mood with a story. The taller, the better.”

  “There is only so long I will be ignored,” Aristodeus said.

  “Face it, Baldy,” Shadrak said, “your scutting master plan is shogged. Don’t know why you didn’t send an expert in the first place.” He drew his pistol and made a show of polishing it with a napkin.

  “Years and years and years,” Aristodeus said, thrusting his face into Shader’s. “Do you think I wanted to train you? Wanted to keep coming back to that stinking little hovel in the armpit of Nousia?”

  Shader focused in on that; it was like a fissure closing up, a lacuna of hidden motives, long-since suspected, but always ambiguous, now coming into perfect clarity.

  “That was it all along, wasn’t it?” he said, locking eyes with the philosopher. “I always knew you wanted something from me; something very specific; but you played me so well, got me thinking you were a friend, family, even.”

  Aristodeus turned away. “Oh, I was far more than that to you.”

  “Yes? And what might that have been?”

  Aristodeus flicked his fingers dismissively over his shoulder. “Time is not on our side. Whatever you may think about my motives, it is imperative that you wield the Sword of the Archon. Believe me, nothing else will suffice.”

  “Who says?” Shadrak stood and holstered his weapon. His pink eyes were narrowed to slits.

  Aristodeus threw his hands in the air. “Are you all complete bloody morons?” He whirled on each one of them, eyes blazing with indignation, or maybe desperation.

  “The little fellow has a point,” Nameless said. “You have all the answers, then maybe you’d better start sharing them with the rest of us.”

  Aristodeus tensed, and for a moment it looked like he was going to strike the dwarf. Nameless turned on his stool to face him, the empty eye-slit of the great helm a portent of menace. The philosopher sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

  “All I can say—and I mean that quite literally—is that I tried once before to stop Gandaw. I…” He grimaced and licked his lips. “I failed. I didn’t factor in the power of Eingana, which he had somehow harnessed. If it weren’t for the dwarves—for Maldark—”

  “The Fallen?” Shader said. “What—?”

  Rhiannon cut across him. “So, your plan’s to neutralize the statue with the Archon’s sword. You want to pit sister against brother.”

  Aristodeus rolled his head and looked around, his eyes eventually settling on a chair at Shadrak’s table. He pulled it out and sat down. “Not quite, but almost.” He flashed her a smile that said, Go to the top of the class. “The statue really is Eingana: her fossilized essence. That was Gandaw’s genius: to harness the power of a god.”

  “Eingana’s no god,” Shader said. “Not in the true sense of the word. Neither’s the Archon, for that matter.”

  “You’re right there,” Shadrak said. He gave a curt nod to himself.

  “Semantics!” Aristodeus said. “The point is, the Aeonic Triad have incomparable power,” and then he added, “at least in this cosmos. What Gandaw threatens—the end of all things—is madness. He wants to unmake what does not come from him, so that he can make all things anew, with himself as the one and only creator.”

  Albert insinuated his way into the conversation by starting to stack the plates on the table. “Isn’t that what we all want, ultimately?”

  “Weirdo,” Rhiannon said.

  Aristodeus snatched an olive from one of the plates and popped it into his mouth. He chewed noisily and licked his lips.

  Albert cocked his
head and watched the philosopher, then said, “What I mean is, it’s natural to want to control.” He proffered Aristodeus the last olive, which was accepted with relish.

  “Which is why you’re such a obsessive, conniving bastard, Albert,” Shadrak said.

  “Look who’s talking,” Albert said. “How many times was it you followed Councilor Hordred home till you were absolutely certain of his every habit? Seven? Eight?”

  Shadrak gave a little cough and spoke behind his hand. “Twelve.”

  “My point is,” Aristodeus said, “that Gandaw’s—”

  “A nut job?” Rhiannon said.

  Shader glared at her. He was about to say this was hardly the time for her childish nonsense, but then it hit him like a fist in the face. “Deceived.”

  Aristodeus jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly. Gandaw thinks he’s in control; thinks he’s fathomed everything there is to fathom; thinks he has the perfect plan to unweave the old and create the new, but he forgets what he is. He’s no god. He’s human, and as flawed as the creation he judges so harshly. But more than that, he’s blinded by his own hubris. Yes, he can control Eingana, but does he know what she really is, where she comes from? Do any of us?”

  “Huntsman—” Rhiannon started to say.

  “Huntsman was an ignorant savage,” Aristodeus said, “wise in his way, and somewhat powerful, but give him an artichoke and he’d have worshiped it as a god.” He nodded approvingly at Shader. “Maybe all that training wasn’t completely wasted. Deception is what underlies this whole bloody mess. Self-deception, yes, but a whole other layer of deception beneath that.”

  “The Father of Lies,” Shader said. “The Demiurgos.”

  “Eureka!” Aristodeus said. A look of relief came over him, and he dabbed at an eye with his finger. He may have been wiping away a tear.