The Reborn Men do not think as we do, but live -pursued by an incomprehensible past – among distempered waking dreams. Alstath Fulthor wanderd into the centre of the maze from quite another entrance, his gait stilted. He stared at the insect in astonishment, flung a hand up in front of his face: a long groan came out of his mouth. He looked like some exotic mantis in his blood red armour. Attracted perhaps by this the insect turned with a clack clack of coxal joints to face him. (Hornwrack and the dwarf were now able to see the curious markings on its abdomen, the three black diagonal bars or fascia running across each wing.) He walked round it groaning, his head working as if his neck contained bent clockwork. Plainly he thought he was in a dream of the Afternoon, for he murmured to himself of Arnac san Tehn and the 'Yellow Gardens'. Now they faced one another again; and if Fulthor looked like an insect, then the thing before him with its hacked yellow prothorax resembled an armoured man. Fulthor glanced down at the energy blade spitting and fizzing in his hand. He hit the insect across the head with it, bursting an eye, cutting into the thorax and shearing off one of its legs.
It fell over on its side and dragged itself round in a circle, a high whining sound coming from its wings. Fay Glass darted about shrieking. Fulthor hit it again; watched its redoubled frenzies with his head tilted intelligently on one side; then dropped his weapon, which immediately began fusing the ash around it into glass. 'Oh, the great cups!'he cried. 'The thousand flowers and roses! The thought with the force of a sensation!'He stared imploringly over at Hornwrack then picked up his sword again and ran off into the maze, his eyes wide and his body leaning at an incredible angle to the vertical.
The mutilated insect had fetched up against one of the cindery walls and was trying to climb it. Ash showered down. Fay Glass wept, 'Wait, we are killed here. Vienna, Blackpool, Venice, drown in their own tears. Press our world. Oh. Oh.'Above her head there materialised suddenly the ghost of Benedict Paucemanly, flabby face full of fear. It grimaced apologetically – 'Fenlen! Fenlen!'- and was carried away on some psychic current, waving its arms. Dark clouds had blown up from the west, and now a scatter of hard snow filled the grey air, pattering off the carapace of the insect, which lay motionless in a corner, a flicker of orange animating its remaining eye. The ground was ploughed up all around it. Fay Glass, exhausted, was walking round and round the central area with her hands over her face, moaning.
Hornwrack stared at the churned earth; the wreckage of the insect. He shuddered.
'Look after her,'he told Tomb the Dwarf. 'Try and find Cellur. Tell him about this. He may understand what is happening here.'And with that he set off into the maze in search of the Reborn Man.
8: Galen Hornwrack and the New Invasion
Down ran Alstath Fulthor, last representative of his House, a scarlet figure with a stride like an ostrich's; and down ran Hornwrack the assassin after him, the breath rattling in his lungs. The maze was behind them, the village before. In the maze, fearing the hidden junction, the sudden mad leap and mantid clutch, the bared teeth of an ambush, Hornwrack had drawn the old sword; out there on the plain it dragged down his arm. Westward the land was all as dark as the sky, long black salients reaching back beneath the cold clouds, their flanks scored by steep-sided valleys and dotted with piles of haunted stones. In the east a little of the early brightness remained to pick out the shattered towers of the Agdon Roches, to touch the escarpment and its oakwoods with a lichenous grey. Mist still choked the village beneath, thick and slow; but a new wind had stirred out in the Waste and was beginning to tease its edges out in streamers, like sheep's wool caught on a fence. The light infused these strands with a delicate yellow; and they smelt strongly of lemons.
Alstath Fulthor flung up his arms and was engulfed. Hornwrack followed, with a desperate cry.
The mist enwrapped them, it stuffed their lungs with cotton wool. They passed like two coughing ghosts along the silent village street. The cottages that loomed on either side were tenantless, dusty and cold, their front doors lodged open and creaking in the small winds which seemed to inhabit the inside of the mist. From the empty rooms behind issued dry smells. Birdlime was spattered beneath the eaves, and the gutters were choked with old nests. Sacking lifted in the wind; lifted, dropped, and lifted again.
Alstath Fulthor drew ahead. He became a shadow, and then only a thud of footfalls. Hornwrack ran on, isolated and a little afraid. Death, he saw, had been there before them; perhaps a month, perhaps two months before. A dead man hung half in and half out of a broken window beneath the spattered eaves. Another sat like a bundle of sticks propped up in the angle of a stone wall. They observed one another dryly, as if some old joke had recently passed between them. Their weapons were orange with rust but their bodies, instead of decomposing, seemed to have shrunk, and were as intact as tight old sheaves of straw tied up in ancient sacking; as though the mist in advancing one process of decay had retarded the other. The village was full of corpses, staring out of doorways, caught in contorted attitudes on the grass round the horse trough – looking surprised or complacent or out of breath. Others had drawn their knives and had been about to throw themselves on some enemy. A few children had fallen down during a game in which they followed one another stealthily among the houses, hands held hooked above their heads.
“'They sail inland all night,” 'thought Hornwrack, and for a moment the face of St Elmo Buffin came into his mind, decent, puzzled, wistful. “'Where they are going we do not know -“'
They had been coming here. Wherever they had come from they had ended up here, standing at salient junctions like abandoned machines, their broken antennae and cracked wings dangling in the wind, their compound eyes as dull as stones. Patches of corruption darkened the ground beneath them like tarry shadows, as if vital fluids had bled slowly from abdomen and thorax to fertilize a crop of bluish mushrooms and unearthly moulds before drying-up altogether. With this dessication had come the slow retreat of the intelligence into the husk, the drying up of the violent insectile telepathies received by Hornwrack and the others in the maze, those incidental broadcasts from the mosaic universe which had driven Buffin's sailors to burn their own ships or drown themselves in the fogbound sea.
At night, its mad energy not quite spent, a disembodied head bounced down the gutters of Hornwrack's Low City dreams, accompanied by the laughter of the crackpot poet: plainly it had originated here among these dilapidated hulks, one out of three of which had fallen under the energy blades of the Reborn villagers and, curious viscera exposed in section, now lay surrounded by a litter of amputated limbs. Someone had cut it off and sent it south as a call for help. The rest of them, though they showed a few shallow cuts and scrapes made by less exotic weapons, like violent scribbles on a lacquered screen – had evidently succumbed to the same disease as the lone survivor in the maze. Crusted discharges had swollen their joints. Strings of hardened mucus hung from the curious appendages attached by leather straps to their facial parts. They faced one another in the mechanistic postures of their death, and a faint whisper of telepathy was draped about them like a cobweb. It touched the inside of his skull as he ran dreaming between them, afraid they would come back to life if he lingered.
He ducked beneath a complicated snout. He pushed aside a canted crackling wing. He waved the old sword about until his arm ached. Later he might recall this: now he knew nothing. The wings of the wasteland locust rustled uneasily in his head, gathering for some vast migration. He no longer cared about Alstath Fulthor, running ahead in the mist. He leapt and sang like a grasshopper, and his progress had become a flight.
(Alive or dead, he managed to think, they have altered the Earth; they have changed it manifestly. Something has come into it…
… And thinking this, emerged from the village.) It was like a door opening and closing. When he looked back the mist was streaming away along the foot of the escarpment in the new wind, and the three small figures of Cellur, Tomb and Fay Glass, issuing uncertainly from the maze, had begun to cross the plain.
When Hornwrack pushed his way through the oaks, old leaves and lichenous dust showered down; and the little bird flew away.
'Fulthor?'
The wounded king wakes and slates about him with a newfear. He has risen from the devotions of one nightmare into the ruins of another. 'Where is this place?'he'll whisper. None will speak. 'Back then!'he'll cry, sweeping the great baan round his head in an arc which makes the sound of panicked wings. Shadows fly like wounded doves from horizon to horizon. Precarious flowers bloom in his secret heart …
'Hornwrack! Am I mad?'A bitter laugh. 'Another dream. More days lost in the absolute abyss of Time. Oh, the fiery woman, with her expressionless eyes! How long have I been away?'
And he advanced dreamily on Hornwrack, still swinging the energy blade.
'Fulthor!'screamed Hornwrack, who saw no magical king (who could blame him? He had been born three millenia too late) and who failed to hear the hum of that long declining dream: 'It's me!'He ducked the lethal stroke; offered the old steel sword (its tip was lopped off instantly); stepped in desperately close and hammered Fulthor's wrist with the pommel of his trusty knife. Nerveless, the white hand opened. The baan fell. Fulthor gave a howl of despair and sat down suddenly. 'Must I always choose between there and here?'He regarded Hornwrack from between his hands. 'Kill me then.'He looked round. 'Where are we?'
Hornwrack, however, was no longer interested.
The ghost of Benedict Paucemanly had reappeared, to float over the oakwood mouthing like a drowned sailor; and through its unsteady, half-transparent shape he had caught a sudden glimpse of the horizon. There, insectile silhouettes processed slowly against a greenish sky, full of bitter snow. They seemed to carry with them an unquiet cobalt halo; along their sides flared sphenograms of an acid green; they held their forelegs delicately raised. Over the summits of the Agdon Roches they went, southwards, with an exquisite mechanical concentration, looking neither left nor right.
The world started to melt like candle wax.
Hornwrack got Fulthor somehow to his feet. Unspeaking, they descended the hill.
Snow whirled round them. Roots caught at their feet. Paucemanly encouraged them with whistles and farts.
'I really mean it, you blokes – ten thousand nights were put in one! There I lay, listening to the winds gathering in the dry places, the abandoned places. We're all in it now, us and them, raw-blind on the waterstair at Shadwell Pier like burnt rats! Phew! The white Moon makes thus “the stair of our descent…“ There was more of this. 'Ooh, what you must think of me I don't know,'he would exclaim fishily; and then, screwing up his eyes behind the faceplate of his abominable mask, bawl -'Felneck! Fandle! FENLEN!'
– his queer epicene voice hooting across the hillside like a signal while, above, the insectile procession moved on imperturbably: south, south, south…
The new wind, rushing blindly out of the east under a cavernous overcast, had brought black obscurity to the village, whose streets were now full of flying chemical ice blown in from the Deep Waste. The dead insects at each corner creaked and shifted in the gale. Their eyes were pitted and stony. Above them splinters of chitin, sections of antennae and shattered veiny wing floated and spun in the rooftop eddies like the rubbish of the Low City rattling round the chimneys below Alves on a blustery night. Hornwrack leaned on Alstath Fulthor, his eyes rimed with urgent ice, the words blown out of his mouth and every thought out of his skull. They came down the main street like drunks in the weak glow of Fulthor's armour. All else was shadowy, hard to interpret. Dead men leaned conversationally forward as they passed, then toppled on to empty faces, limbs breaking away like the rotten limbs ofscarecrows to go bounding off down the road and lodge in a fence.
Cellur the birdmaker awaited them at the centre of the village, where the wind was whipping spray off the horse trough and the front doors were banging on rooms inhabited only by mice and suffocated children. He had with him Tomb the Dwarf. From the debacle in the maze they had retrieved three horses and the pony, which now stood in the street shifting bad-temperedly with each fresh gust of wind:
tTomb was redistributing the surviving baggage between them as if in preparation for a further journey into the deep madness of the World. This activity made an island of humanity in the rushing gloom, at the approaches of which hovered the madwoman, wrapped from head to foot in a thick whitish garment and turning aimlessly this way and that like something hanging from a privet branch.
Alstath Fulthor looked emptily at this scene as if he recognized no-one in it, then sat down in the road. Hornwrack, tugging at his arm, heard the birdmaker shout 'Ride! West, for your life!'He shook his head. 'Wait!'He wasn't sure he had heard correctly. The old man had got up on his horse now and was watching them impatiently, his embroidered cloak streaming in the wind. The dwarf ran round checking saddlebags, tightening girths, and urging the inert Fay Glass into her saddle by means of pantomimic threats. The wind rose and fell cynically, tugging at the dry husks of the insects. The horses milled about, sensing an imminent departure. Hornwrack let go of Fulthor's wrist (“Black piss! Stay there, then, if you must!”) and caught at the birdmaker's stirrup instead. The horse dragged him off his feet, the old man's yellow face swam above him, alive with what he took to be fear. They were in an eddy or pocket in the gale.
'In the maze,'said Cellur, 'my errors were made plain. Much, if not all, is now clear to me. I cannot yet explain the ghost – 'he prodded Hornwrack's shoulder, pointed up into the wrack where Paucemanly bobbed, smirking and bowing like a butler – 'but I have at last learnt what he was trying to tell us.
'You must go and rouse Iron Chine. Pray that St Elmo Buffin, a man ill-used by circumstance, is not as mad as he seems! Tell him the time has come to launch his fleet. Tell him help is on its way.'He smiled bitterly. 'Lunatics and ghosts – all along they have had the right of it!'For a second he stared slack-faced and frightened into the west, his hooded eyes human for once. (After all, he is out in the world now, thought Hornwrack – who sympathized, being newly out in it himself- like a crab out of its shell: what guarantees has he left? And again: What can he fear after ten thousand years?) He made a cutting motion with his hand. 'Still. I was slow to connect these things. I have been too content tosit by and let Fulthor lead. Now Fulthor has failed me, and there it
Is.
'Fenlen, the island continent, is infested. They have been established there since they poured down from the Moon eleven years ago. (I looked on like a fool. What else could I have done? I forget.) But they cannot bear Earth's airs: and when their scouts fly inland low over the sea, which they do night and day, they do so surrounded by an atmosphere of their own manufacture. By day they blunder into Buffin's sailors. They are as motiveless and mad as the men they kill. They do not belong here.'
He gestured at the empty village, the creaking husks. 'Can you doubt it? Yet they are trying to make the air over to suit them. This is only the beginning.'He shuddered. 'They will remake the Earth, if they can. Rouse Iron Chine, Hornwrack. I ride now to the capital. Delay me no longer!'
Hornwrack hung on to the stirrup. All he could think of to say was, 'Something is the matter with Alstath Fulthor. Up on the escarpment he tried to kill me.'
'Oh, I am in hell,'said Alstath Fulthor, shaking his head. He had come up behind them silently, the baan like a live thing in his hand. 'I am not myself.'Tomb the Dwarf, who had tightened the final strap, tried to take the weapon away from him for his own good. 'Come on, old friend.'They rolled about in the road, cursing and biting. Fulthor wriggled away and got up again. 'Come down off your horse,'he ordered, 'and explain all this. Why, up there, great cock-a-roaches walk along the ridge!'He pointed in the wrong direction. (The dwarf crawled away holding his face and spitting.) 'Or is it in my head?'He shrugged, smiled shyly; lurched off. Fay Glass woke up and looked at him sharply. Keeping a wary eye on the dwarf, she got off her horse.
Suddenly they both began singing, 'We are off to Vegys now.'Hornwrack looked on appalled. 'Fal di la di a.'
(When he fled through the High City like a bleeding king, in a sweat of fear in the middle of the night, and hoped no-one would notice; when he muttered in the palace the nine, long, alchemical names of his House, and hoped no-one would hear: all heard, all knew but himself. Alstath Fulthor:
the past was pulling him down.)
'When we first met,'said Cellur, 'he spoke to me often of memory, which he conceived of as a hidden stream, himself perched on its bank looking into the water. Also of something which hovered like a dragonfly over the moment of his reawakening in the desert at Knarr.'He sighed. 'What did he kill down there in the maze? Nothing you or I saw. All this has hastened the inevitable.
'Soon he will be as mad as the woman. She will help him. You must help them both. It is why I brought you.'
'I brought myself, old man.'
'Be that as it may.'
'What am I todo?'
'Earn what you were given,'said Tomb the Dwarf, and meant, perhaps, the sword. 'I believe you'll get no other pay.'He was in a bad temper. He wiped his pocked old nose on the back of his hand to show what he thought of it all, and pushed his sodden conical hat firmly down on to his head. 'You were not brought but bought,'he said with a hard grin. 'Goodbye Hornwrack.'Hauling himself up into his saddle he added, 'We'll go back across the Waste to Duirinish – for it's quicker if you know the paths and don't mind old battles or old lizards – and thence to Viriconium. Cellur fears the Sign of the Locust. He fears for the Queen. He does not quite know what he fears.'He looked about him like a man expecting rain. 'I fear this. Still: one way or another I dare say we shall all have some heads to cut off before long. Do you look after the mad folk.'And he gave the pony vigorous kicks until it consented to move off into the weather. Teetering on the edge of visibility for a moment, dwarf and pony made a curious uncouth silhouette, a composite creature above which flew like a flag on its long haft the curved evil blade of the power-axe. 'Never say I disliked you!'The eyes of the pony before it turned its head away were a flat and empty green.
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