Mobius

by Garon Whited

  Nightlord

  Möbius

  by

  Garon Whited

  Copyright © 2019 by Garon Whited.

  Cover Art: “Spiral” by R. Beaconsfield (rbeaconsfield@hotmail.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books by Garon Whited:

  Dragonhunters

  LUNA

  Nightlord, Book One: Sunset

  Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows

  Nightlord, Book Three: Orb

  Nightlord, Book Four: Knightfall

  Nightlord, Book Five: VOID

  Short Stories:

  An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream

  Clockwork

  Dragonhunt

  Ship’s Log: Vacuum Cleaver

  The Power

  The Ways of Cats

  “Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well

  When our deep plots do pall, and that should teach us

  There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

  Rough-hew them how we will…”

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2

  Exordium

  Before me lies the infinite tree of possibility as it branches and re-branches, dividing and merging again, to form the fractal peacock-fan of the future. Behind me, I see only a single path, an undivided line, drawn straight and true. Is there a draftsman who delineates my course? Is my free will only an illusion? Is there a destiny to shape all ends? Or am I free to choose? Can I—may I—decide my own course? Or is it pointless to wonder?

  How can I know what is comforting illusion and what is truth?

  Nevertheless, I know the future, and such knowledge angers me, sets burning coals in the hollows of my heart. What good is foreknowledge if the future cannot change? It smacks of fate, of a helplessness in the face of cosmic forces, and this I cannot bear. A leaf on the wind does not soar. It is carried helplessly aloft, to fall where fate decrees. I cannot think of myself as smoke on the breeze, blown about at whim, powerless to guide my course and dissipated into air, into thin air, like the cloud-capped towers.

  Even as my soul shouts denials, I recognize the tiny sound of its voice. There is nothing from the universe, not the slightest recognition, not even an echo to mock me. Even for it to laugh would be to take notice of my infinitesimal being, and this it will not do.

  Perhaps I delude myself. If so, I take comfort in my madness. I am who I am, and I will do what I choose to do. My choices may narrow to nothing. I may be dragged, fighting and clawing, to my appointment in Samarra. But the struggle to resist, to exercise a free and unfettered will, is fundamental to the nature of humanity.

  And, sadly, I still bear the marks of humankind upon my heart.

  Rethven, Friday, April 13th, Year 9

  Quandary:

  You have the power to destroy a million or more people, and in so doing, end a war, stop a religious cartel from converting the whole world into bliss-addicts, and—as a bonus—stop a quasi-divine being from consuming human sacrifices. The catch is, it will cost a piece of your soul.

  Do you do it?

  Wait. Let’s not make any snap judgments. Let’s find out more. Who are they? What are their motives? Which side is right?—all those sorts of things. Oh, the questions we can ask before making such a grand decision! What is the first thing you want to know? Maybe something about whether or not the war is a just war? Is it clear which side is in the right—assuming there can be a “right” side in a war? Are the people involved guilty of something? How many of them are innocents? Will it hurt, or will it be quick and painless? How bad is this drug addiction? How bad is the entity with the human sacrifices?

  Although, to be fair, if it’s demanding human sacrifices, it’s pretty bad already, so this specific question might be pointless.

  No, none of these were the first question to spring to my mind. My first thought was, “How big a piece?”

  Damn.

  Or, more properly, damnation.

  I sat beside the sand table, laid my armored forearms on it, and got soot on my chin as I rested the one on the others. I’m proud of my sand table. I think I have a right to be. It’s not really sand, but dust, incredibly fine, with individual particles indistinguishable to the human eye. The shapes and colors are almost perfect, albeit a bit grainy to my vision. I’m reasonably certain there’s nothing else like it in the world.

  The sand table showed me the whole of the Empire of Light—the kingdoms owned and ruled by the Church of Light—as though I stood in a high place and saw them all in a moment of time. The metaphor of looking down upon the kingdoms of the world from a high place was not lost on me, but no one took me up there. I climbed up there despite my fear of such metaphorical heights.

  I saw towns and villages, cities and farms, princes, potentates, paupers, and peasants. Probably potatoes, pillories, and parasols, as well, but they don’t figure into things quite so directly.

  Seldar once told me his opinion on kings and greatness. He said something along the lines of good kings rule a nation with an eye toward doing so efficiently, competently, and fairly. Great kings, on the other hand, go beyond this. They do whatever needs to be done for the welfare of the kingdom. Great kings are often regarded as cruel, but what they really are is ruthless. There’s a difference between cruelty and ruthlessness, but if you’re the one on the wrong end of the ruthlessness it may not be readily apparent.

  It’s not their only qualification, of course—history is full of rulers both ruthless and incompetent—but ruthlessness is a necessary component for greatness. Great kings can disregard the wails of those harmed by his decisions, much as a surgeon disregards the pain he may inflict in saving the life of the patient. But, much like the surgeon, he must be doing something to benefit the people as a whole, not simply cutting out anything he finds annoying or troublesome.

  At great risk of being wrong, I’m not sure I completely agree with Seldar. Oh, he has a point. A leader has to pay attention to the people, but he can’t worry about the whiners and malcontents when trying to run a country. An airplane pilot gets people to their destination. He doesn’t turn the plane around because some complainer didn’t get a good look at the scenery. In an emergency, a leader acts. He doesn’t take a vote. A driver can’t discuss which way to swerve to avoid an accident. Someone has to have the final say, I suppose. If you’re going to keep a plane in the air, reach the destination, and land without turning everyone aboard into chunky meat paste, the passengers don’t get to order the pilot around. They sit down, buckle in, and shut up.

  When Seldar told me his opinion, I didn’t have anything to argue with. I knew he wasn’t wrong, but something about it wasn’t right, either.

  As I look at the millions of murders I contemplate, I am forced to consider a new perspective. It’s not coldness. It’s not callousness. A great king—a truly great king, one who will be remembered by generations to come as “The Great”—needs a slightly different quality than ruthless determination. A great king is in the business of selling his soul for the welfare of his people. Not all at once, of course. Bit by bit. Maybe bite by bite. He does it by looking into the eyes of a nobleman who actually deserves the title and executing him anyway. By sending men into battle to die—or to slaughter those who are helpless to stand against them. By murdering a threat to his kingdom and his people b
efore the threat can cross the sea and strike.

  Most of all, though, he has to be right. This is where I run into problems.

  Bronze moved behind me, sticking her nose over my shoulder to breathe warm air in my ear. I stroked her nose and she pretended to rest her chin on my shoulder.

  She pointed out any king must start with a sense of responsibility toward his kingdom. Everything else stems from that. And I do have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I accused.

  True, but it didn’t change the truth. Besides, whatever I decided, she was behind me. She wasn’t complicated by all those messy feelings of guilt and frustration I carry around. She simply wanted what I wanted, and if I didn’t know what it was, she would patiently wait for me to make up my mind. I had reasons for wanting to annihilate my enemies. I had reasons for wanting to be merciful. She let me know I could choose either course without any worries about her. And if being pissed off about attacks on my loved ones meant stuffing someone toes-first into a meat grinder amid a light sprinkling of vinegar and salt, it was fine with her.

  “I know,” I told her, sitting back from the table, reaching up and behind me to pat her cheek.

  It was a good thing I knew it. Only an idiot wouldn’t know it by now.

  “Close call, then.”

  She playfully lipped at my hair. I ducked and she laughed.

  At least you’re not moping in front of the sand table, Firebrand pointed out.

  “Which was probably her intent, the devious piece of metal.”

  Bronze shook her mane, chiming and tinkling like wires in a windstorm.

  Sometimes I think she’s smarter than you.

  “Only sometimes? You haven’t been paying attention.”

  Firebrand had no reply. I stood up and walked around the sand table, considering it from all angles. It didn’t look any better from north, south, east, or west.

  Incoming, Boss.

  I turned to face the door. It swung open, grinding slightly as the slab of stone pivoted around the center. Dantos looked the question at me and I nodded. He entered, carrying my bow and two large quivers of arrows. Outside, a pair of knight-trainees—the “dusks” of the Order of Shadow—muscled the door closed again. Dantos went to one knee and presented the bow. I thanked him and took it, drew it, felt the pull. It’s a damned heavy draw during the day, even for me. I can use it—sort of—even when the sun is up, but I can’t do a full draw. I’d like to see Odysseus cope with the thing.

  “And how are you?” I asked, setting the metal bow aside. Dantos rose, unslung the quivers, and leaned them against the table.

  “Well, my lord,” he assured me. “May I inquire about your own being?”

  “Troubled.”

  “Is it a matter in which I may be of any assistance?”

  “I don’t know. How well do you deal with mass murder?”

  “I do not deal it out, so I have no way to know for certain. I suspect I do not do it well.”

  “Fair. Maybe we can both learn something. Come here.”

  I showed him the sand table and pointed out the various cities and towns of Praeteyn, Ynar, and H’zhad’Eyn. They still had their sand-table auras, marking them as potential targets. I walked him through the projected campaign.

  “So, as we continue eastward, we’ll hit bigger cities. We’ve lost close to two hundred horses, turning cavalry into infantry. We’ve also had about sixty human casualties in the slaughter. Over half of those were sent back here to recuperate, but the rest are dead.”

  “The wounded are doing well,” Dantos informed me. “Wounds are the easiest things to heal, but shattered visors and broken armor take more time to mend. Also, growing a new eye is a lengthy process. The visors are the weakest part, I fear, and so injuries to the face are more common.”

  “Yeah, I saw some of them. A horse goes down, a man goes with it, and the mob swarms over. When the mob holds you down, the faceplate goes in first. A lunatic with a big rock and determination can do it. Likewise, a pickaxe between armor plates may not penetrate the ballistic weave, but the blunt force trauma doesn’t do your neck or groin any good.”

  I did not bring up how I stayed away from the injured at night. Being a blood-sucking monster is bad enough. Being a blood-attracting monster is dangerous to anyone with a bleeding wound.

  “My point,” I continued, “is at our next stop, we’ll start having more fatalities among the knights. I hate that. Even discounting the fatalities, we can’t put the wounded back together quickly enough to win. We’ll be ground down and worn away, city by city, until we don’t have the force to take another. While our wounded will eventually recover, the dead stay dead.”

  Bronze snorted.

  “For the most part,” I added.

  “You fear for the lives of your knights?”

  “To quote a famous potions master, ‘Always’.”

  “As you say. You would kill these millions to safeguard your knights?”

  “That’s not—” I started to snap, and bit it off. “It’s one factor,” I admitted. “There are others. The people of these regions are also… controlled. You might think of them as possessed by the Lord of Light. Also assume I don’t have the strength to cast him out of everyone. I can kill them all, but removing the influence of their so-called god is something beyond my scope. It’s more complicated than that, but it gives you the idea.”

  “I see.” Now Dantos was as troubled as I was. Nice going, me.

  “Frankly,” I went on, “what I see coming is the eventual dominance of the Church of Light over the whole world. This war is only the start. If we don’t win it, the rest of the world will have to join forces to stop it—and I doubt that will happen.”

  “You foresee a time when the Church of Light takes into itself, piece by piece, the entirety of the world.”

  “Yes. If they’re smart, every generation or so, they’ll grab another kingdom, possibly one on either end of their empire, as far apart as they can. This lets them expand and incorporate new territory, new citizens. Then they stop for twenty years, letting their new neighbors calm down before the next expansion cycle. Anyone they aren’t neighbors with will be happy there’s a buffer state and be unconcerned. It may take a couple of hundred years, but they can ooze across the face of the world with almost no chance of encountering any major alliances in opposition.”

  Dantos shook his head and sighed.

  “My lord, I am no one—merely a man, once injured, and restored by your grace and power. I have been given, all unearned, position and responsibility and authority by your will. I have done what I can to the best of my ability, always, in every endeavor you have set to me. But this… is not something I can learn to do. I have no understanding of the ways of the gods, beyond my part in the rites to placate them. I have no grasp of the whole of the world, much less how it may be conquered, or kept from such conquest. In any venture you set before me, I will go willingly, but I do not know how I may serve you in this.”

  “I’m not sure anyone can,” I admitted. “I guess I wanted someone to throw my thoughts at and see them bounce.”

  “I do not follow the meaning of your words, but I hope I have helped you to accomplish your purpose.”

  “Helped, yes. In fact, you’ve reminded me of something. See if you can arrange to have Kammen come to me.”

  “I shall speak with him immediately,” Dantos agreed, and departed.

  I sat in one of the heavy, carved chairs and brooded. I’m starting to think it’s not really a talent all vampires have. It’s the fact we get more opportunity to practice. Immortality and circumstances.

  Kammen arrived within the hour. It was pretty good time, considering. The shift-tent made getting to… let me see if I remember. Karvalen is the kingdom, Vios is the city, and Arthur is my pet rock—the mountain in the center of the city. The tents made it easy to get to Vios, but he had to ride from the tent by the Temple of Shadow to
the mountain, negotiate the halls within, and finally get here, to my scrying room.

  He walked in. He could have ridden. I made the corridors big enough.

  “Sire?”

  “Have a seat,” I invited. He did so, placing his helmet on a projection at the top of the chair. “I need to ask your advice.”

  “Shouldn’t I get Seldar?”

  “You’re the expert on this.”

  “Women?”

  “I had in mind the Ribbon of Fate.”

  “Oh, that kind. Yeah, I’m your guy. What can I tell you?”

  “You know I can’t look at the Ribbon. At least, not at night. I don’t have one at night, so even during the day, all I see is the immediate Ribbon of Fate for the day. It’s strictly for you full-time alive types.”

  “I didn’t know that. Or, if I did, I forgot.”

  “It’s true. So, to get an idea of what’s coming, I need your help. I have a big decision to make. I’d like some hints about it, if you can provide any.”

  Kammen pulled at one cheek, rubbing the stubble with one black-gauntleted hand. This reminded me again of my own soot-stained condition. I should do the clean-and-repair routine.

  “You know the Ribbon pinches?” he asked. “Where y’got a big decision, it pinches tighter, makes it hard to see through. Most times, it just tells you y’got an important decision coming, not much else.”

  “Yes. If it was easy, I wouldn’t have called in the foremost expert I know.”

  “Huh. All right, I’ll look. It takes a while.”

  “I’ll send someone for food.”

  Kammen settled more comfortably in the chair and seemed to go right to sleep. I spoke to the dusks outside and returned to my own chair to wait. I filled some of the time by mounting my iridium assassination gate on a rod, as when I used it as a gate through which to shoot priests. I also examined the arrows, considering the size and weight of the arrowheads. They were flat, triangular heads, suitable for beating on. Seldar thinks ahead, but he was thinking in terms of the spell, the Thousand Hammers. He didn’t know what I intended. To be fair, I didn’t know what I intended, yet. They weren’t the heaviest arrowheads, but they would be more than sufficient…