Mark growled but could manage no further resistance. His entire form flickered as he struggled to keep his internal reactions stable. His core stuttered, and everything went cold. A flash tore from his chest to his extremities, releasing what power remained in a cloud of flickering motes and sparks. The waveform collapsed. Flesh returned to him.
In the sparks that scattered from him, Mark could see his failings. Against the demonic power of the Weeping Man, even his ascended power was not enough. And that was by design. He’d been used, just as Ellie had been. They were all ash, to be scattered amid the ruins at the end of the world. He couldn’t do anything. It was over.
The Weeping Man’s leaking eyes studied him as he floated, weightless and inert, above the strange-matter plane. “How disappointing.” With a sound like the breaking of waves upon a shore of glass, the smoke that made up its body dispersed. The familiar purple suit of the Cheshire Man reappeared. “Such a shame,” he said. “It seems that even in a blind rage you are incapable of entertaining me.”
The suited demon began to walk away, twirling his knife in his hand and humming to himself. When he reached a small, altar-like platform cut out of the infinite bedrock, he stopped and lifted his arms skyward toward the seething hexagonal waves overhead. “Well, no matter. It was a nice diversion, I suppose. And denying you an attempt at closure . . . Bah, there’s no point in rationalization at curtainfall. Let us just agree that we make a great team.” The honeycomb tessellations in the sky seemed to shift in response to his voice. “Now, it is time to awaken her.”
Mark coughed. His lungs burned with whatever spell simulated the presence of oxygen. He reached out and willed himself forward, but inertia was stronger. “Why are you doing this?”
The man looked back at him, lunatic eyes growing hard. “Why?” He chuckled, but the sound was now devoid of humor. “Do you know what it’s like, Warren? What it’s like to be trapped in one of these Jailer-built prisons for time unending? Trapped in stasis, in numb suspension, forever damned to fester in silent decay?” He tapped the rim of his hat with the blade of his knife. “This one, the one you all call Raxxinoth . . . She is so very lucky.”
Mark tried to move his legs. They felt like they weighed as much as the Earth. The exertion rewarded him with only pain.
“Raxxinoth. Raxxinoth! At least she is all in one piece. How I envy that. But that is all beside the point.” He stretched his arms toward the geometric aurora above. “Now, be silent whilst I work.”
Mark strained, flexing his muscles and hoping to influence gravity. It was to no avail. And were it not for the pain, his despair would have crushed the effort. “I’ve figured out who you are,” he said between raspy breaths. “Took to the very end, but I’ve finally figured it out.”
The Cheshire Man ignored him.
“I understand now. That it was all you. All your doing. The birth of the Lunar Vigil. Its death that red moon’s night. The cult of Raxxinoth. Websworn. Yellow Dawn. You were the one who turned the Yellow King’s subjects against him. You drove them to war. All in hopes of luring one of the Outsiders here. Didn’t you? And when that Outsider failed to open A’vavel for you, you planted that seed. Just another pawn in your goddamn game. Who else could have done this? Only you. Deceiver who walks among men. Writhing Malefice.” He shivered as he intoned the name. “Ozmahesh.”
The Cheshire Man’s hard demeanor cracked, and he showed Mark a wide grin. “You know, it is so rare that you humans boast of having figured everything out and then follow it with anything even remotely intelligent. You impress me.”
Mark then remembered the Yellow Dawn announcement both he and Spinneretta had seen. The realization deepened, and his body went cold. “All this time. From the very beginning. You’ve been controlling us all, haven’t you?”
The man sighed. “Have you any idea how many centuries this has taken, Mark? How long I have planned and strategized, all to fulfill this very moment? You humans make terrible Chosen and even worse pawns. Cursed free will. You move to take your opponent’s rook, and the piece bursts into flames in your hand, so reliable is your contemptible race. Had you simply read the book I’d given you, we could have all arrived here so much earlier and sans much pain.” A low sigh. “Well, after a few hundred years recovering from my last attempt to free Raxxinoth, I’m not wont to complain should it take just a little longer.”
Mark gritted his teeth. “Damn you. Your mind is free, but your body is still trapped somewhere. You think if you help the other Primal Ones escape, they will repay the debt in kind. But what’s the point? Is it just for freedom? Or do you think they will bow to you and let you rule over everything when the dust settles?”
At that, the Cheshire Man’s violent glee vanished. He glared at Mark, lips peeled back in a scowl. “Freedom? Rule? Do you truly believe I should wish to reign over such an insipid dimension as this? What self-importance you humans are given to. Freedom?” He paused. The dark light in his eyes flickered with rage. “Perhaps, in a word. Tell me something, Mark. Were I to speak of Black Euclidean, would the words chill your blood in the same way they chilled the Mad Arab’s?”
“Never heard of it.”
The Cheshire Man growled in irritation, tossing his arms back and forth between crossed and limp. “Since the very birth of this dimension, since even before the Primal Ones fissioned from the original being, there has existed a relic of timeless aspect and design. When the Outsiders happened upon this universe, that artifact was the only place their lust for conquest would not take them, for they knew of the curses that haunted its halls. But when they realized they could never hope to seal us all away, a small band of Outsiders traveled to forbidden Black Euclidean to unlock its secrets, hoping to discover some manner of weapon to turn the tide of the war.”
The story struck a chord somewhere in the furthest depths of Mark’s mind. A chill danced along his arms and neck.
“And when they activated Black Euclidean, it unleashed a wave of death that washed through this universe. Primal Ones, Outsiders, soul-based life, bacteria . . . Ninety-nine percent of everything was wiped out in that moment. The Outsiders, seeing what they had done, were devastated. Some went mad, some ended their own suffering, some attempted to fuse themselves to sealed Primal Ones in hopes of transcending their solitude. Some yet patrol the vacuum of space, guarding against the return of their ancient enemies.”
The Cheshire Man’s gaze narrowed as he looked Mark up and down. “I was once very powerful, you know. Legends lost to your civilization told of how I ruled a legion of the strongest Primal Ones before the fall.” His voice dipped into a gravelly range, a growl rolling off him. “Do you know what happened when your progenitors locked me away? Hmm? My power was far greater than they could contain with their ordinary methods. So, what were the poor Jailers to do? I’ll spoil the third act for you: they broke me. They rent my soul—my mind—and scattered the pieces to all corners of the Void. Then, they took what remained of me and sealed it away.
“They thought they had killed me by splitting my mind apart. But when the one percent inherited the ruins of this universe, this piece of me you now see emerged. Ever since then, I’ve been adrift, waiting. Watching. I saw the seeds of your pathetic race sown by Abakroth in time immemorial. I’ve seen the rise and fall of empires and religions and cults. I’ve seen the stars shift in the heavens over aeons. From the beginning, I’ve been a captive audience to your banal tragedies. To be forever under this duress, to witness all things as they occur, to see the same insipid dramas unfolding thousands upon thousands of times—!”
The Cheshire Man hissed and whipped his knife through the air. “I am the audience—the immortal audience—but your race can’t even manage an interesting plot without my interference. Without me, they would forever reenact the cycle, festooned in self-importance, unchanging, until entropy swallowed them. Only when I play my hand does anything change! Humanity possesses only the power to erode! I can imagine nothing less interesting than m
ankind, you cancerous infection of mind-death!”
For a moment he stood there, seething, drawing harsh breaths. And then an eerie calm came over him once again. “You think I desire freedom? In a word. Once Raxxinoth is free, we shall set our sights elsewhere. With your help, I shall release the captive Primal Ones. And when the Jailers who remain see the resurgence of their ancient enemy, they will have little choice but to reactivate Black Euclidean. All life will again be washed away in a tide of glorious nothingness. But this time, I, too, shall be liberated from this hell. Once the theater has been burned to the ground, what remains of your kind will be free to pick up the pieces and rebuild their sand castles. Only I will be gone. I will be free.”
Mark clenched his teeth. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to let you do that.”
The Cheshire Man’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Yes, that’s good! That’s a line I’ve been waiting for! You say that I’m insane, and then I exclaim that I’m misunderstood. Or maybe I invert the accusation by casting doubt on the sanity of the other actors. Let’s not waste time considering the implications of mental stability and get to the crux of the matter: you cannot stop me, Mark. Outsider. Were you a true Outsider I’d have feared you. But you are merely a vessel to power you scarcely understand.” He continued spinning his blade and let out a venomous sigh into the dark. “I’d love to kill you, but I’m afraid I need you alive. At least for now. I must admit, even I had not expected your power to open the door quite so easily. Such miraculous potential I could never allow to go to waste.”
Biting back the growing pain all over, Mark scowled. “I’d sooner die than help you.”
“Oh, how very noble of you. But I will have your cooperation. Should you refuse to help me,” he said, turning a demonic eye upon him, “then your most precious friends and loved ones shall be my victims.”
A dawning fear took Mark’s scowl from him. His face went numb.
“Oh yes, Mark. All of them. Annika. Lily. Even your precious little Spinneretta. They will all die if you do not help me willingly. But just killing them would be rather pointless, wouldn’t you say? Not nearly dramatic enough. That’s why you yourself will do the honors. It would be trivial to find them, bring them here, and force your muscles to do as I command them. That much is easy, as you yourself must know. Then, the real fun would begin. How painful would it be to slit their throats with your own hand, begging tearfully the whole time for forgiveness? As you plunge this knife into their chests and slit them open, they would each die cursing your name with their dying breaths—just as Ariel did.”
Mark’s teeth chattered. The vengeful conviction in that demon’s eyes sucked away all of his own. He felt his will to resist melting, leaving only hollow despair behind. The abrasive laughter of the shard of Ozmahesh boomed all around him. All the time he’d considered himself a tool to Golgotha, it was all an illusion. It was all a grim phantasmagoria; no matter how terrible those perverse shadows seemed, the tendrils of the Writhing Malefice that cast them were all the more sinister. In defeat, he could only shout a feeble cry of misery.
Singing the discordant anthem of the outer gods, Ozmahesh once again approached the flattened stone. He spread his arms toward the sky, and the slithering tessellations overhead came alive again. Shimmering yellow flares sent shadows dancing across the surface of A’vavel. “Now,” he said, “it is time.” The air stirred, and a spiraling storm of smoke formed around him, billowing upward like a drill. Mark could only watch in helpless resignation as the column of smoke pierced the heavens and crashed against the barrier. A great thunder split the sky. The pattern condensed, all glowing points flowing toward the storm. “Raxxinoth!” Ozmahesh yelled. “Awaken!”
The flickering sky-geometry roiled and pitched. Streaks of light blurred across the void as the smoke pillar bored into the seal. Sounds of discord ripped across the vacant world, echoing off the distant structures. The sounds were the worst of it all, for they curled Mark’s fingers and drew his molars tightly together. If his muscles still had the strength, they may very well have crushed his teeth down to the roots.
A crack of lightning scorched his eyes and left a dead ringing behind. A spectral groan from above. “What is this?” the Cheshire Man asked. “Will you not awaken?”
Mark cracked his eyes, unsure to whom the question was directed. As if answering Ozmahesh, the hexagonal constructs that flowed along the barrier reconfigured themselves around where the smoke ground at the sky. Is it trying to repel the attack? Another bolt of light cracked the abyss, and a symphony of demonic whispers cascaded across the furthest reaches of the prison-world. Ozmahesh must have heard them as well, for he seemed disconcerted by the inhuman thoughts that gargled around them.
“You’re fighting me? Do you not desire freedom?” He growled, and the spiraling storm of smoke grew more violent. Fissures of yellow light sprayed overhead, breaking apart the hexagonal shapes that formed the veil. “Enough of this resistance! This isn’t about you, child. I will break open your prison, whether you want it or not!”
Then, all at once, something changed.
A harsh rushing sound washed across the wasteland. At first, Mark thought the barrier had finally collapsed, but a flicker of his eyes found the geometric weave intact. Fighting against the fatigue that held him rigid, he twisted his head over his shoulder. He gasped. A liquid-energy stain, like an inversion of the black smear that had led to A’vavel, now throbbed in the dark. The rift crackled, rippling with a yellow incandescence. The arcing bolts of some alien force flowed outwards and pulled the portal into itself.
The strange-matter projection anchoring them to A’vavel collapsed with the portal. The sensation of falling through space overcame Mark as his body was thrown toward the singularity and hurled through the dimensional fabric. Everything went white, and then a blinding orange.
His body struck something hard, and his eyes jolted open once more. Barely able to move, he groped at the ground, blinded by the light. He felt small but immaculately cut blocks of stone and sand. And beneath, metal. The great machine. Something cool seeped around him. Mist. Zigmhen.
He heard a thud from not far away, followed by a savage growl. “What happened?” the Cheshire Man yelled. “You treacherous half-man, what did you do!?”
Mark said nothing. He didn’t know the answer, and even if he did he hadn’t any strength with which to speak. The silence was not well taken by the fragmented Primal One.
“Has defeat stolen your hearing from you, Warren? What did you do!? Answer me!”
A foot slammed into his side and sent him into a roll. He groaned but could manage no further exertion. He could only laugh, a feeble and fragile sound that felt like it would break him. If they were back in the Web, that meant there was hope. All he had to do now was die. If the Outsider-constructed mechanism had rejected them, and if he could die before the Cheshire Man forced him to reopen it, then—
He froze. Something was wrong.
Though his mind’s eye was weary, he could see just enough to know that something was inexorably amiss. Dizzy, he fought through the pain in his body to find what was missing. And when he realized what it was, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The seal he’d laid to prevent anyone from ever returning to this cursed land had been perfect, all-encompassing. But now, he felt a gaping hole in the fabric of the spell.
No. It was impossible. He’d gone mad. The exertion of his starblooded form must have liquefied his brains and left what remained twisted and delusional. But the more he stared at the evidence with his mind’s eye, the more he realized—and cursed—his lingering sanity. The edges of the seal, now receding in all directions, unraveled the hope that he may have yet made a difference.
“No,” he choked out, mind churning. His thoughts scattered amid the breeze. He heard footsteps on the stone ground fast approaching. Mark forced his eyes open again. Thick fog surrounded them. The Cheshire Man glared down at him from where he stood. But the footsteps drew ever nearer. Heart
pounding, unable to contain his horror, Mark peered into the wall of mist.
Beyond the Cheshire Man, from the edge of the crater and the depths of the mist, the tatters of the King emerged.
From the shadows, the smoke-thing reveals itself again. It seems I have at last outlived my usefulness to him. I wish to embrace my end, the release from untold ages of solitude and pain, but I cannot. A fragment, a mere speck of my previous spirit has returned, and I am consumed by uncompromising hatred for the creature.
He who dared to turn my beloved children against me, who moved my hand to self-eviscerating war, who impelled the masses to carve their false idols, who split my kingdom into jagged shards. He whose whispers rang through the halls and loggias, and left only rubble. He who brought the ancient flame of magic to my realm. He who shielded that monstrous entity from my wrath and saw my own will broken in the wake of its failure. He who gleefully gazed into my suffering as everything I had once ruled over was washed away. He who treacherously invites man to my realm and peddles the relics of the lost.
As the smokebeast overtakes me and my life is carved away by streams of death, my final thoughts are those of vengeance. For what was taken from me, I swear upon the grave of Mother Raxxinoth that I shall have my revenge. Even if it takes me a thousand years, I shall return. I shall arise. And I shall kill.
Chapter 48
Anamorphosis
Spinneretta crawled along the ground into the fresh antechamber, sweat pouring off her neck. The situation’s true shape yet eluded her, and denial was doing its damnedest to suppress her rational thought. If Mark had indeed thrown her back to Earth of his own volition, then it was because he was protecting her. He intended to face the Cheshire Man alone, and in doing so sacrifice himself in hopes that Raxxinoth could be contained. And she couldn’t allow that to happen.
Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3) Page 65