“You wish to see my master, the count?”
A flat and lifeless voice made Ragnok jump, his horse shifting uneasily. A pallid humanoid figure was before him, elegantly dressed in a black suit, with a high collar caressing the skeletal cheeks of his face.
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” The servant drifted uphill following the road away from Newhaven.
Overcoming the reluctance of his mount, Ragnok set it walking slowly behind as they picked a route through the heaps of gray bodies. He swallowed nervously as they passed goblins, talking in subdued tones, their pale yellow eyes glowing avariciously as they looked him over. They passed the tower, a short distance to their right. A pack of hell hounds lay about the base of the building and they, too, turned to watch Ragnok’s progress with scarlet eyes, which blazed all the more fiercely in the fading light. At the point where the path turned into the edge of a forest was the count’s ornately carved carriage, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the windows.
“Wait here. He will be manifest shortly.” The servant took the reins of four vicious-looking black stallions, and rose silently to the driving seat above the carriage.
The sky darkened, only a ruddy glow left on the clouds to indicate the recent passage of day. Through a gap in the slow-moving clouds could be seen the glitter of stars.
“Who are you?” A chill voice stole out of the black depths of the carriage, its door now standing wide open. The flutter of the evening play of starlings had ceased, as had the intermittent hoots from the owls of the woods.
“I am Ragnok. This is another character, but I’m the same person who you have spoken to in the form of the Executioner, the black warrior.” His voice was dry and choked.
“I see.”
For a while, the count said nothing more and Ragnok suppressed a shudder, unable to ask the questions that he had rehearsed on his way to this meeting.
“Come into the carriage.”
For a moment, a surge of horror prevented Ragnok from dismounting; he did not wish to share that dark, confined space with the creature. But he made himself cross over and step into the vehicle, which creaked and rocked as he pulled himself inside.
The vampyre was sitting stiffly across from him, delicate fingers smoothing the folds of his velvet cloak. Ragnok could not bring himself to look up into the count’s face.
“What . . . what happened? Did they get inside?” he eventually managed to ask.
“Yes. You failed. All your boasts were idle. Cindella, Sir Warren, and one other are inside, waiting for the correct alignment of the moons. Then, if they choose, they can destroy everything.” The vampyre was matter of fact, but Ragnok blushed with shame.
“Can they be stopped?”
“They can. I will kill them shortly. But it is the manner of their deaths that is important.” The vampyre shot out an arm and gripped Ragnok by the chin, forcing his head up. Never before had the eyes of the monster sent forth such waves of power. They were explosions of dark flame against a deathly white face, now twisted into a feral scowl. Ragnok immediately felt a shooting headache, one that he knew would continue after he unclipped. The situation made him dizzy and his vision began to blur so that he felt he was falling from a great height towards two great pits set in a plain of white chalk.
“What interests me now,” whispered the vampyre to itself, “is whether I can remove them from this game, permanently.”
The blood was beating in his ears. Ragnok felt sick, and wanted to unclip for a while, but he could not even blink.
The vampyre leaned across, so that their noses gently touched, like an intimate kiss. But all the time the count’s wide, staring gaze emitted pulses of energy. Each one now came with a clap of sound; it was the blood surging to his ears, matching the beat of his heart. The carriage was still, vampyre and Ragnok locked face-to-face, listening to the rhythm in his chest, which began to pulse faster.
Still holding Ragnok’s face in a viselike grip with its right hand, the vampyre plunged its other hand into the chest of the character, causing a tingle to pass through him.
“I am squeezing your heart. Do you understand?” The words came slowly, each one laden with malice.
Desperate now, Ragnok tried to look away but was terrified to find that he could not. His eyes filled with tears, his body poured with sweat, and, despite himself, he imagined a cold hand, clawing inside his chest.
The thumping of his heart was louder now, beating fast and erratically, its sound filling the black chamber of the carriage.
“I squeeze. I loosen. I squeeze again,” the count whispered, the flow of pulses from his glare becoming faster, and with them the shuddering strokes of Ragnok’s heart. “Listen to my voice and carefully consider its meaning. My fingernails stroke your beating heart. I envelop it in my fingers. I squeeze. I loosen. I secure my grip upon it. I pull it from your body!” With a terrible cry of elation, the vampyre released a massive pulse of energy, jerking its hand out of Ragnok’s chest and waving his clenched fist in triumph.
High above Mikelgard, in the great meeting chamber, now in darkness other than a small flashing light from the unit that Ragnok had been using, a still figure sat slumped at the table. Head tipped to one side, the man was still clipped up to the game, but he was no longer breathing.
Chapter 32
EPICUS ULTIMA
The tower stood at the nexus of an enormous, writhing concentration of ethereal threads, like a giant needle thrust through a ball of silvery wool. Inside, it was utterly bare, a tall hollow tube that narrowed to a distant black point; but outside, it connected the entire universe. Throughout the planet, ethereal threads wove their way, unseen by normal eyes, merging and splitting, forming great knotty robes and minute fibers—the warp and weft of the world. And at their greatest concentration, where massive cords of ether fastened themselves all the way along its length, this shimmering tower.
Now that he was standing at the center of the world, Erik could understand how the pathing worked. If, somehow, you took ethereal form, you could travel along this cord, as a pulse of moonlight, and you would be in Cassinopia; along that one and you could visit the undersea city of King Aquirion; or that one, and you could dance on the surface of Sylvania, just for the fun of pirouetting in the low gravity.
Cindella whistled aloud with admiration. It was an extraordinary position from which to appreciate how vast and detailed was Epic. It was a shame that the others were not here to experience it. Similarly, it was tempting to continue the game, to explore the endless realms that had now suddenly become available. But of course there was no question of that, not now that the game had become an instrument for C.A. to misrule the real world.
Cindella walked across the wide floor; her tread was soft, but nevertheless echoed into the distance. A glance showed that she had not disturbed Sir Warren. The brave paladin had dragged himself into the tower moments after Cindella; torn and burnt, he was barely alive. But she had helped him into a sitting posture, in which he remained, meditating and praying, restoring his depleted spell-casting capability. It would take several hours, though, to recover to the point of casting “heal” spells of sufficient strength to cure all his wounds.
Returning to his explorations, Erik was increasingly anxious that there seemed to be no sign of a lock for his key. Then he stopped Cindella, curious. A channel in the floor was partly filled with a milky silver liquid; it stretched right across the chamber, crossing over the center. Where the channel met the walls of the tower, at either end, it was white. But some twenty feet in the center of the line remained dark and empty.
Erik was puzzling over this when a sudden metallic-sounding set of footsteps made him look up. Sir Warren gave out a groan, but the noise was not from him. Into the chamber had staggered Svein Redbeard, wearing his great blue warhelm. He quickly uncorked a healing potion and restored himself before looking up.
“Svein, what are you doing here?” Cindella ran over to him.
“I could no
t resist the opportunity. Once I saw you had summoned the tower, I had to see for myself. It was a risk, but with fire resistance up, those hounds aren’t so bad.”
The warrior walked around, gasping with amazement at the shimmering tendrils of ether that floated in innumerable quantities from the walls of the tower. “Hell’s death! This is incredible.”
“Why didn’t you help us?” Erik accused him.
“I wasn’t sure I wanted you to succeed. After all, this world might finish now?” Svein walked around the chamber, footsteps loud.
“Yes, if I can find the lock.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. In fact, I think it is probably a very bad one. Better if I take charge of things, now that you’ve destroyed the rest of C.A. But I don’t suppose I can stop you if that’s what you want.”
Neither of them spoke for a while, as Svein strode around, like Erik had done, sending his vision along the ethereal pathways as pulses of moonlight, to see into the realms that they penetrated.
“I wonder where the princess is being held?” Svein mused aloud.
“That one, I think. I saw it earlier.” Cindella pointed partway up the north wall, to a thread that would eventually lead to a magic chamber accessible only via ethereal pathways.
“Hmmm. Yes, I see. I’m tempted to go and rescue her. I have the other quest parts. The poor creature must have been there for years.”
“Go ahead. Sir Warren needs peace and quiet to recover his healing spells.”
“Oh, never mind. Perhaps later if the world survives.”
“What do you make of this?” Cindella ran over to the line in the floor, which glowed silver at either end. Sir Warren gave a weary glance at it, but said nothing.
“Curious,” replied Svein, and then looked past Cindella through the wall of the tower.
She turned around. Epic’s first moon, Sylvania, had risen halfway in the star-filled sky, glowing silver through the translucent walls of the tower. Similarly, Aridia, her smaller companion of the night, was rising on their opposite side. Cindella glanced down again. The part of the line that was empty had shrunk! As each of the moons was gaining height, the channel was filling with silver light from either end of the hall. Soon they would converge in the very center of the chamber floor.
“That’s it!” cried Erik delightedly. “That’s where the lock will be.”
“Probably.” Svein sounded regretful, but did his best to pretend otherwise, walking around the inside of the tower, exclaiming from time to time as the threads revealed the missing connections that once had puzzled him so greatly.
A shiver passed through Cindella as if an earthquake had suddenly rocked the tower. The quality of the light changed, tainting the silver glow all around them with corruption. It was as though the ancient decay of the standing stones had somehow seeped through the ethereal stones of the tower. Looking up, Erik was stunned and nearly paralyzed to see the vampyre standing behind Cindella—a vicious, confident smile playing on its evil lips.
“We meet again, for the last time, I think.” The count shot out his arm, and Cindella barely rolled aside, evading the grasp. She leapt to her feet and began to run.
The chuckle of the vampyre filled the tower with malicious glee. “Run, run little girl. Let fear grow in your heart.”
A wave of immobility struck her; the count had cast a spell, but she was able to shake it off. Then an ominous silence. Was the creature flying now, swift but silent? Was it right behind him? Involuntarily Cindella flinched, imagining a blow between her shoulders.
Should she take one of the ethereal paths? To a realm where the sun was up? But how was that done? And what about using the key?
In an instant, it no longer mattered, for the count appeared right in front of Cindella, having been invisible while he overtook her. His eyes were extraordinarily intense black furnaces, pouring out a dark heat that seemed to warm Erik physically. He could feel the sweat pouring from his body back in Hope Library.
That was it! He would unclip for a moment while the moons moved into position and talk to the others. Perhaps they would have a suggestion. But it was strangely difficult to raise his hand.
“Be still,” the vampyre whispered soothingly, coming closer, all the time transfixing Erik on the points of his stare. Even though Erik knew that the words were poison, sapping his strength, he found himself relaxing his muscles. This was an extremely disturbing experience, and yet he could not bring himself to look away. It was like the time he had been feverish in the hospital, seeing his body lying on the bed as if from the outside.
“Ahhh, Cindella, you are a rare beauty in this drab world.” The count caressed her cheeks with the backs of his gnarled fingernails, slowly drawing them down her neck. Erik was conscious of the beating of his heart; he could see reflected in the black mirrors of the Count’s eyes each beat of his pulse as it swelled the arteries of his white throat. And the pulses were growing faster.
“No!” Sir Warren was blazing gold with the presence of the Avatar. “She is our friend. Leave her.”
With a snarl, the count hurled Cindella across the chamber and whirled to face the paladin.
“We have no friends—certainly not among these creatures. For are we not one? But they, they are millions. We are alone.” The count was attempting to be placating now. But Erik, restored to his senses once more, could detect a tone of genuine nervousness in the vampyre as Sir Warren strode towards it.
“No!” cried the count. “You will destroy us!”
“So be it.” Sir Warren suddenly reversed his blade, and, holding it upside down, as a great silver cross, thrust it forward. “I banish you, foul creature of evil.”
“Argghhhhh!” A terrible scream resounded about the chamber, causing Erik to clamp his hands over his ears. The vampyre flinched, collapsing to one knee and cowering, arm above its face. Golden light poured from the figure of the knight, its streams scalding the count, who howled with the voice of a thousand tortured prisoners.
Yet the vampyre clung to its existence, and would not be banished from the tower. Gradually the screams ebbed away and were replaced by a silent struggle. The count stiffened and astonishingly fought his way back to his feet. Aghast, Erik saw that the pure gold light flowing from the paladin was becoming tainted, subtly altering, a particle at a time, turning to copper, as a blood stain seeped into the air around the vampyre.
“Death and destruction!” swore Svein. “What are they?”
Without answering, Erik came to his senses and looked at the center of the floor. The two lines of light were nearly touching. Cindella ran over to the point at which they would meet, and took the key out of its box, holding it ready. Only then did Erik risk looking back at the struggle.
Now the vampyre was closing on Sir Warren, one labored step after the other. The paladin was braced, one foot stretched back for support, both his hands thrusting forward his upturned sword, blazing like a star. But tendrils of corruption were snaking back along the golden paths, casting deep red shadows that made sinister shapes on the walls of the tower. Another step and the vampyre could nearly touch the sword, its face twisted in agony, sharp incisors gleaming from a jaw stretched wide.
Almost whimpering aloud with urgency, Erik pleaded in his mind for the silvery lines to fill up the last of the channel, and touch. They were only inches apart.
The vampyre placed both his hands over those of Sir Warren and slowly the sword began to lower. Throughout the tower, the blaze of light grew noticeably dimmer, and darkness crept down from its distant roof. Then, more hopefully, a pulse of golden lightning and renewed, hideous screams from the vampyre. The two of them were locked together, torturing one another.
All that Erik could do was to look away, to beneath his kneeling figure, where the silver liquids stretched their convex surfaces towards each other and, finally, kissed. Moonlight flowed in the channel from one side of the tower to the other, and at the center, directly beneath Cindella, the words finem facere m
undo appeared in glowing silver, encircling a small keyhole.
“Erik!” Svein was beside him, a look of eagerness on his face. “Let me. Please. I’ve spent my life working for this.” He held out his hand.
Cindella shook her head.
Svein sighed. “Still, if it should be anyone else, it should be you. You are a great player, very sharp, exciting to watch, intelligent too. I was watching the battle. Your team was incredible. In all the years I’ve taught at the University, I’ve never seen such daring but accurate moves.”
This was all very well, but Erik refused to reply, hurriedly scrambling to get the key to fit properly.
“Stop what you are doing!” Now Svein drew his sword. But they both knew that the threat was idle. Nevertheless he chopped down onto Cindella’s wrist with a blow that could have cut off her hand. If he had hoped that the tower was a kind of arena, in which player could attack player, Svein was disappointed; Cindella was totally unharmed.
“Of course! Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” Svein abruptly sprinted to where Sir Warren and the Count were locked together, and smashed the hilt of his sword into the back of the paladin’s head.
Sir Warren’s sword fell to the ground with a clatter, and his body collapsed into the arms of the vampyre, who tossed it across the chamber with disgust, turning his evil eyes immediately to where Cindella had finally managed to settle the key in the lock.
“Desist!” All the powers of command that the vampyre could summon were focused in that one word.
“No.” Cindella grasped the key firmly and turned it as far as it could go.
In the far distances of the universe, stars crumpled, their light and matter sucked into the tiny hairlike endings of ethereal threads. The threads themselves drew inwards, tiny fibers retreating into the body of the great coils. Above the tower, slowly at first, the glittering lights disappeared and darkness grew. Not the dark of a night sky, but an absolute black. Nothing.
Epic Page 27