WoP - 02 - Istu Awakened

by Robert E. Vardeman

  No, she shouldn't curse Rann. She loved a challenge.

  The secret police who had arrested this young man had evidence which led them to believe he knew the identities of the leaders in the conspiracy against her. That was why she chose to interrogate him herself; also, she needed surcease from the screaming frustration of beseeching the Dark Ones to tell her; why?

  By layers she stripped away resistance. The apparent carelessness of cuts she had first made was belied by the way she played on them to create a pattern of pain, of blood and tanned skin. And finally, sobbing uncontrollably, the captive was ready to tell everything the silvery, seductive voice coaxed him to reveal.

  Then the change began.

  At first Synalon blinked, thinking it a trick of the light or of sweat dripping in her eyes. Itwas no illusion. The skin blackened before her eyes.

  She drew back with a startled exclamation. Did the young man have some loathsome disease that had just entered a climactic stage? Her fingers traced glowing patterns in the air in front of her. She chanted a spell of protection even as the writhing of the bound body became a writhing of the very contours of that body, a change of mass and outline more profound than any wrought by Synalon's knife. The chest expanded, grew so muscular that it was grotesque. The legs shortened and thickened, swelling with muscle until the straps around thighs and shins parted with explosive cracks. The arms grew thicker, too, lengthening so that the huge muscles of the upper forearm burst asunder the straps that had restrained the captive's wrists. The forehead bulged, the jaw became a slab, the nose twisted into a sardonic beak. Eyes like portals to an infinite pit regarded her with infinite amusement.

  It was a black Dwarf which lay on the torture table. But a Dwarf taller than any man she knew. The sturdy stone table groaned beneath its weight.

  'Don't you remember me, little sister?' The Dwarf shook his gigantic head. 'And after all the caterwauling you've been pouring into the Void I shouldn't think you'd greet me with those paltry protective canthrips you're muttering beneath your breath.' He smiled showing huge perfect teeth. 'Or has it occurred to you that your behavior toward my Masters, alternately whining at Them and demanding that They offer explanation for what you take to be Their deeds, has been scarcely calculated to win Their approbation? And have you thought, lovely one, that the mildest of such punishments I might mete out for your impertinence would have you offering your kingdom and your soul for the chance to trade places with that unfortunate who occupied this berth before me?'

  She fell to her knees. Fear and ecstasy numbed her brain, and her heart raced out of control.

  'O Messenger of the Dark Ones, forgive me! I didn't realize it was you.' Her hands caressed the gnarled thighs, working upward to their juncture.

  The Dwarf chuckled and swung to a sitting position.

  'Much would I enjoy giving way to your inviting blandishments. You definitely have your uses, though you've given little evidence of that lately.'

  'What do you mean?' She flinched back. 'Haven't I served the Dark Ones well? The mightiest seaport of the Realm lies an offering at Their feet. And how do They repay me? By allowing Their chosen folk to make compact with my sister to drag me from my throne, the throne I consecrated to the greatness of the Lords of the Dark!'

  The Dwarf threw back his head and laughed like the rolling of a great brass bell.

  'How quickly your ire makes you forget the humility appropriate to a lowly servant.' Beams of scarlet stabbed from his eyes. Synalon's smock flashed into flame. She shrieked and leaped to her feet, clawing at the fiercely burning garment. Her fingers blistered as the fabric resisted a moment, then gave way. She flung the smock into a heap by the wall. It flared to intolerable actinic brightness and vanished, leaving only scorch marks on the wall. All the time the

  Dwarf's laughter washed over her like oily surf.

  Her belly and breasts showed a fiery pink, as though from long exposure to the sun. Her rump felt as if it had been branded. The rancid smell of burning hair choked her. She beat at her head and the juncture of her thighs until the smouldering stopped.

  And then the realization struck her like a mace.

  The Messenger read understanding on her face and smiled.

  'Yes. You thought you had mastered the fire long ago, and yet in its most primitive form it almost consumed you. Think on that lesson, beautiful child.'

  He folded maul-like hands across his bulging belly and leaned back onto his elbows.

  'Now. What was it you wished to ask of the Masters?'

  She took a moment to conquer the fear and rage seething within. She almost blurted out another accusation. She turned it into an exhalation of breath and started again, to the accompaniment of the Messenger's knowing grin.

  'I have done my utmost to serve the Dark Ones,' she said as evenly as possible. 'None could have served Them as faithfully. Now They - rather, now it appears that They have chosen to aid my mortal enemy against me. I dem - That is, I most humbly beg to know why They have done this thing. And what . . . what redress I must make to regain Their complete trust.'

  The black head swung ponderously from side to side.

  'O, ye of little faith,' the Dwarf said. 'Is this truly how you venerate the Eldest? By leaping to the conclusion that They betrayed you?' He clucked. 'It is a sore disappointment to our mutual Masters. They harbored great hope for you.'

  'But . . . but the Vridzish are worshippers of the Dark Ones! Aren't the Masters permitting them to come against me?'

  'The Fallen Ones worshipped the beautiful principle of Oneness which is the Endless Night - ten millennia ago. Because of their own carelessness they lost their power among nations. They chose to blame the Dark Ones, who so loved them that They gave Their only begotten child to aid the Zr'gsz against the interlopers. So they turned away from Grace.'

  Synalon stared.

  'The Fallen Ones no longer worship the Masters of the Void?' 'Think how easily your faith was swayed. The Hissers lost a world. One can understand their deviance. Almost.'

  She ran her fingers through the stubble remaining of her hair. It was brittle and broke with tiny sounds like the snappings of a thousand minute twigs.

  'You're saying the Dark Ones have no influence over the Vrid-zish?'

  'Not necessarily. But like their opposite numbers, the Dark Ones work almost exclusively through those who chose to do Their bidding. Much depends on the vagaries of mortal servants on both sides, and even of those who take no side.'

  Her nerve returned and with it a measure of defiance.

  'Then let the Dark Ones aid me against my sister. It should be sweet indeed for Them to taste complete vengeance against those who have forsworn Them.'

  The demon tipped his head back and studied her down his nose before saying, 'It isn't that simple. You are on probation. Your behavior has caused our Masters doubts . . . grave doubts.' He shook his head. 'Only the worthy may receive the blessings of Darkness. You must prove yourself, my dear.'

  'But... but Moriana has the magic of the Hissers to draw upon!'

  'And haven't the Dark Ones given you many gifts of power and wisdom already?' He sat up and rested his heavy chin in the palm of one hand. Unlike a human, his palm was as ebon-dark as the rest of his body. 'Our Masters chose you because They deemed you the most powerful enchanter alive. Do you believe your sister is stronger?'

  'Moriana?' She spat out the name. 'That pale-haired bitch-slut? Never!'

  'Then you will have no trouble besting her. And in the process, reaffirming the Dark Ones' faith in you.'

  He turned and lay down full length on the table.

  'Perhaps the next time the Masters will allow me to accept the tribute you tender so well,' he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. 'But until that hour . . .'

  'Wait!'

  'Farewell.'

  The heaving, undulating transformation didn't reverse itself. Instead, white light exploded from the Dwarf, dazzling Synalon and throwing her back against the wall.

>   When her eyes opened she was on her knees again. The shape of the captive reclined on the table in a pose of mortal agony.

  But not in the flesh. What lay on the dull stone was an obsidian likeness of the traitorous officer, perfect to every feature depicting each incision Synalon's knife had left, even showing bloodspills trailing from the wounds.

  As such portentous events are prone to do, it happened quite by accident.

  Fost dropped by one of the field headquarters Uriath had set up in a safe house after the courier pointed out that the High Councillor might not want the attention of Monitors drawn to too many comings and goings from his own mansion. Fost enjoyed appearing unannounced. It irritated Uriath, but the High Councillor could scarcely refuse to see someone as important and highly regarded in the movement as Fost.

  'Time to clench your teeth and loosen your purse strings again, Uriath,' the courier said as he entered the basement of the chandler's shop which was the current secret command post. 'We've a contact who has blackmail goods on old Anacil's chief assistant chamberlain. Seems he's been diverting funds from Synalon's warchest.'

  'Who's that?' a voice asked sharply, apparently from nowhere. Uriath looked up from what appeared to be a large pan of water resting on the table in front of him. The look of annoyance on his face quickly changed to surprise.

  Fost's heart bounced into his throat. Frowning, unwilling to believe his ears, he moved forward to stare into the pan.

  He found himself face to face with Moriana.

  'Uriath, what . . . Great Ultimate!' The image wavered as the princess fought to control herself. 'Whoever you are,' she said in a quavering voice, 'you bear too close a resemblance to someone I once knew.'

  Fost grinned.

  'I don't know whether you'd call it resemblance so much as identity,' he said.

  'Ah, Princess Moriana, we meet again,' said a voice from Fost's hip. I've never seen you lovelier. Treachery and murder agree with you, it appears.'

  'Erimenes?' She gasped. 'Then it's - oh, Gods, Fost!'

  'Guilty.' The word cracked across and the flippancy left his face. He opened his mouth only to shut it again. 'Are you well?' he finally asked, and instantly castigated himself. He'd had months to form a proper greeting and had done no better than a lovesick adolescent.

  The princess visibly strained to hold back her tears.

  'I didn't think I'd ever be grateful that I didn't strike true,' she stammered, 'but now, oh, Fost, I'm so glad you're alive!'

  'Don't chide yourself about your aim, Moriana. There's something I need to tell you. You don't have . . .'

  His voice stopped. His lips moved but no sound emerged.

  'Fost? There's something wrong with the enchantment. I can't hear you.'

  'You don't have anything to worry about, my dear,' he heard his own voice say. 'I'm working with the Underground to pave the way for your glorious return.'

  She frowned at his peculiar choice of words.

  'I'm pleased to hear it. I'm laying plans with Uriath now so that we may strike coordinated blows to bring Synalon down.' She seemed about to say more, then glanced out of Fost's field vision. 'I ... I have to go now.'

  The breaking of the connection hid a choked sob.

  'Erimenes,' hissed Fost, picking his way from shadow to shadow through the streets. 'Why in Ust's name did you take over my voice? And how did you do it? This far from Athalau?'

  'Necessity,' the philosopher said haughtily, 'is an excellent aid to my already significant ability. And it was urgently necessary that I prevent you from blurting that Moriana had the Destiny Stone instead of the Amulet of Living Flame.'

  'But why? By the Emperor's rouged ass, she has to know!'

  'Do you really want Uriath to know?' The courier fell abruptly silent. 'That's better. Someone might hear you - hsst!'

  A footfall came to Fost's sensitive ears. He melted back into a doorway and concentrated on imitating shadow. A moment later a pair of Monitors swung around the corner and came right at him.

  'And then I said to her, "If you'll just be reasonable, it might not be necessary to take you in, my sweet."'

  His companion laughed loudly, an ugly, distorted sound through his mask.

  'So wha'd she say? Huh?'

  They passed by. The first Monitor elbowed his taller companion in the ribs. Fost's fingers tightened on his swordhilt. 'What do you think, Nalgo? "Oh, you Monitors have always been my ideal, so strong and brave! I'll do simply anything for the service of my Cit -"'

  They rounded the next corner, going in the opposite direction from the candle shop Fost had just left by a back door. He let himself breathe again and set off down the street.

  'I don't trust Uriath farther than I can throw him,' Erimenes said as if nothing had happened.

  'A vaporous entity would be hard pressed to throw a man that portly.'

  'My point exactly. I think he suspects Moriana ventured lo Athalau in search of a talisman of some sort. Whether or not he knows she was after the Amulet is irrelevant. If he thinks she got something powerful, he might just decide to lay hands on it himself.'

  Fost chewed his lips, rolling the problem around in his mind.

  'I wouldn't put it past him,' he conceded.

  'And if he finds she's got the Destiny Stone - and if he has any idea of its properties - he may just decide to have nothing to do with her. At all.'

  'You mean the thing's that potent?'

  'Potent beyond imagining.' Was it imagining or did Fost sense trepidation in the genie's voice? 'It's vastly stronger than the Amulet ever was. But it was always valued less because its powers were uncontrollable. In my time some theorized it possessed a sentience of its own.'

  For once Fost wasn't yawning at one of Erimenes's lectures. 'But we've got to tell her.'

  'Agreed,' said the spirit. 'But can you suggest how we might go about it without sharing the information with the great and noble Uriath?'

  'I'll think of a way.'

  'You hope.'

  'Ziore?' Yes, child. 'I ... I feel strange.'

  She felt rather than heard gentle laughter.

  You killed the only man you've ever loved, only to behold him healthy a half year later. Did you not feel strange, that would be the strangest thing of all.

  'Did I do right, Ziore?'

  'Do you think what you did was right?' came the genie's soft voice, both to ears and mind.

  'I did then. But now, I don't know.' She sat up in bed. A moon balanced on the edge of the Thails, laying a golden trail across Lake Wir. In the distance a nightbird sang to it. 'But somehow the decision to ally myself with the Fallen Ones came easier because . . .because I killed him.'

  'Because you felt you'd already soiled yourself.'

  'Yes.' Moriana hooked a thumb around the silver chain she wore always around her neck and fished the Amulet into the moonlight. As usual its surface balanced white against black, revealing nothing. 'Now I hate myself more. Fost's being alive almost makes things harder.'

  'I know.' The words came soft, caressing, soothing., Moriana kneaded her face with one hand. 'I do love him,' she said softly. 'How can I find myself resenting that he's alive?' 'You're human.'

  'It's so easy for you to be so glib, you who've never known human passion!' She stopped, horrified at what she'd said. 'Gods, Ziore, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . .'

  'You did,' Ziore said with a trace of sternness. 'If nothing else, I've learned too much to heed words spoken in anger.' A moment's silence, then, 'But speaking of anger, I confess I was angry when I heard you address Fost's unseen companion as Erimenes. If you hadn't had things of more import to say, I would have told that vile charlatan a thing or two!'

  Moriana grinned wryly at Ziore's vehemence, so unusual to the placid spirit. In an oblique way the nun was chastising her. It was the fault of Erimenes's philosophy that Ziore hadn't known human passion.

  'I'm glad Darl's away,' said Moriana. '1 ... 1 couldn't face telling him yet.' 'I understand.'

  '
Thank you.' The princess let the Amulet fall and lay back down. The pillow was cool and sweet-smelling beneath her head. 'To think I'll see him again!' she whispered. 'Oh, Ziore, I'm not a murderer!'

  But a voice in the back of her skull asked: am I a traitor?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In increasing desperation, Fost attempted to tell Moriana that the talisman she carried was not the Amulet of Living Flame but the mercurial Destiny Stone. The opportunity eluded him. As the City moved toward Wirix and the waiting army, the press of preparation drove each of them ever faster. Not infrequently Fost was on hand when Uriath and Moriana were in communication. They exchanged a few hurried words, looks which Fost hoped meant certain things but couldn't be sure.

  But Uriath was always there, somedays bland, sometimes avuncular, always giving the impression of something hooded coiled beside him. Even with Erimenes there to hold his tongue for him, Fost found himself unwilling to speak of the Amulet and the Stone with Uriath near.

  As the City crossed the Thail Mountains and began to descend from the height to which it had climbed to clear the peaks, Moriana's army broke camp and moved southwest from Lake Wir to meet it. The Wirixers didn't want the battle fought over their heads and were unwilling to take active part in the action. They had given Moriana's forces the right to stay for a time and had provided her with supplies. More than that they wouldn't do. It mattered little. The battle for the City would be fought in the City's own element: sky.

  It was the last day before the two sisters met, doomsday for unspecified numbers on both sides. Fost had gone without sleep for three days trying to accomplish a million things at once, laying out tactics for the joint invasion and insurrection, trying to keep the morale of his untried revolutionaries from disintegrating totally at the prospect of battle, dodging the last-minute push by the Monitors that wiped out a quarter of the Underground's cells overnight. He stumbled like a zombie when he entered Uriath's current catacomb to confer with the resistance chief.

  A silent youth guided him down a slippery flight of stairs. Rank and humid smells clogged his nostrils. Why did Uriath pick a mushroom farm for his new command post?