The Knowledge (The Circle Book 2)

by Lee Isserow

  “It'll be back?”

  Shaman nodded. “This was just a test, to see if it had garnered enough strength in the Natural World to open a door. . .”

  “Do. . .” Faith didn't want to say the words out loud, but he didn't have the faculties to cast away his voice in that moment. “Do you know what it is? Which one of. . . of them?”

  Kahgo gave him another nod, but was reluctant to say the name out loud. If those at the Circle heard it, if they allowed themselves to believe in it and fear it, then that would only bolster its strength all the more.

  Faith glowered at Shaman's lack of cooperation. “So, when it comes back, how can we deal with it. . . if Three's trick isn't going to work again.”

  “There is the chance,” Shaman said, with a sigh, knowing that his suggestion was not going to be accepted willingly. “The slim chance, that it would be willing to parlez.”

  Faith scoffed, and rolled his eyes theatrically at the suggestion. “Parlez?! You want to sit down and have a bloody chat with this thing?! It looked like it was the size of a damn city―”

  “It is, more likely, the size of a moon―”

  “I think you're proving my bloody point there. . . We're not just going to invite it over for tea and work out a bloody arrangement in which it doesn't cross over and destroy the damn world. . .why the hell would it listen to us for? We're ants to this damn thing!”

  “But,” Shaman said, pursing his lips as he attempted to broach a subject that few magickians liked to discuss. “We, by which I mean all magickians, are its kin. In one form or another, it is our forbearer, by however many generations. . . It is, for all intents and purposes, a part of us. The patriarch from which was born the magick that flows through our veins. . . and in that regard, it might wish to abandon its crossing into the Natural World, at least on this planet, in order to maintain its formidable lineage in this realm.”

  “I didn't get you to come here because I wanted you to have a bloody chat. . . I brought you in to do what you did in Nevada, to blow the damn thing back into the abyss, where it bloody belongs!”

  “With respect, you did not get me to do anything. I am only here as it is time for me to be here. . . And Nevada was a last resort. If you recall, there were six incursions before that final one, and each of those was an attempt to parlez―”

  “I was on the front bloody lines at the Temple Mount when the damn thing came through, saw good people die―don't you tell me that was a parlez!”

  “The deaths were unfortunate―”

  “If you're not going to kill this damn thing, then what the bloody hell is the point in you being here?”

  “You will let me have my parlez. For as you have said, you have seen good people die. . . and to attack this being, especially without knowing what its intent is, could result in more death than you could possibly imagine. If there is a chance it is open to a peaceful solution, and it does not wish solely to conquer, we must not make it our choice to embark upon conflict over diplomacy.”

  Faith glared at Shaman, but as he stewed amidst the anger, he grew to accept that the elder magickian's plan was more strategically sound than his own. He growled out an angry sigh, and conceded “Alright. What do you need to make this polite bloody chit-chat happen?”

  Kahgo looked out across the main floor, at the faces of each of the magickians present, then turned his gaze back to Faith.

  “We are going to need assistance from Three. And we are going to need blood, magickal blood. . .” He glanced over to Tali. “You are going to need to call in reinforcements. For there is not enough blood in this room to do what needs to be done. . .”

  37

  His true face

  GIBSON DESERT, AUSTRALIA

  By the time the Circle's reserves had been called in, and blood had been taken from every one of them, London was no longer the point of entry for the gargantuan creature's crossing.

  Three's first task was to map the mystogeography of the Outer Realms on to the surface of the earth, to parse where the veil between realms was going to be thin enough to call the beast forth. As the coordinates between Natural World and Outer Realms continued to shift, it became a question of prediction and patience on the part of all involved. They would have to wait until a weak spot between realities was somewhere with a low population density.

  That was how Shaman Kahgo came to be teleported to the Gibson Desert, with a great ball of human blood held ahead of him.

  There had been no time to extract the plasma by mundane means, and some within the Circle thought the very notion of using a needle to pierce their skin as abhorrent, given how precious their blood was. Let alone the act of donating blood for such a dangerous endeavour, to summon something forth that was so massive and potentially destructive.

  And yet there was little they could do to countermand Shaman Kahgo's influence over them. Not that he acted in any malicious fashion to manipulate them. His age, and the age of the magick that flowed through his veins had a calming effect on all that came within contact of his aura. They acquiesced, even though many of them had not trusted him since his departure from the Circle.

  The sun bore down on him from above, the sand under his feet radiating wave upon wave of baking heat from below. He stood still, conserved his energy, allowed the heat to seep through his skin, into his core. He would need all the magick at his disposal if this was to work―and all the magick that Three had to hand also. And so, as he waited patiently for the time to be right, he turned all that heat to good use, allowing it to wash against his skin, holding it close, sending it swirling around his body, building up bulk and mass.

  It was not moral, to use the Natural World's magick to add to his own. He knew that, and felt bad for taking that which was not his to wield. But it was the Natural World that was at risk, and so he justified the infraction to himself. It was something he would make up for in time to come, an apology and re-compensation that he would embark upon once this crisis was over and dealt with.

  “It is time,” Three whispered in his ear, just as the sun hit its highest point in the sky.

  Kahgo took a breath and fanned his fingers out. He pictured the sigils in mind's eye. Ones that were so similar to those utilised in London―and yet different at key points. For he was not using this casting to bring the creature forth, he was not building a door or a bridge, but a window. A slit in the veil through which conversation could be had, but no physical matter would be able to cross beyond.

  The ball of blood glistened in the afternoon sun as its surface shifted and shimmered and rippled at his command. It spread out from the centre mass on a horizontal plane, as flat and thin as a sheet of paper. It whipped through the air this way and that as it drew out the sigils in his mind's eye, a magnificent artwork of lines and swirls, ancient letters and words he had not spoken for millennia, all with the purpose of bringing something forth that should―under any other circumstances―not be brought forth.

  As he put the finishing touches to the sigils, he let the blood lower from its position in mid-air, and it settled on the surface of the sand. It was still held together, not allowed to interact with the ground, not yet. He cast his eye over it one last time, just to be certain that there had been no errors in its construction. Even a single line out of place could be catastrophic, resulting in either the casting all being for nothing―or it not acting as intended.

  The use of magickians' blood was meant to act as a barrier, to insure that nothing could pass through the realms―but just a single foolish error could easily turn that intent on its head, and make it an even more powerful doorway than the one that had been opened in London―one that would be self-sustaining, and not close simply because it had run out of magick, as that one had.

  Another breath as he readied himself. This would not be easy, and certainly not be fun. . . Kahgo let the blood loose, let it sink into the sands, and as soon as it did so, light erupted from the centre of the sigil. But this was not the massive liquid light of London
, it was constrained, held in place by the magick of the blood that had been used to conjure it forth.

  He walked towards the window and looked through it, seeing into that which existed beyond. He had glimpsed the void beyond the threshold before, and as much as he wished to be able to ignore it, a pit formed in his gut as he saw it once again. Beyond the glimmers of the slit in the veil was the combined horror and majesty of the Outer Realms. An abyss of darkness, that went on for an eternity in every direction, filled with horrors and creatures the likes of which words could not even begin to describe.

  Despite his years, and his experiences with such things, he could never get used to seeing it with his own eyes. Partly because his eyes―as others saw them―were not his eyes. What lay beyond the threshold was, in no uncertain terms, were more akin to what he was, deep down, behind the mask he wore. The 'thulus, as the Circle called them, were monstrous beyond definition, and he was―whether he wanted to admit it or not―closer to them genetically, than he was to man.

  There was no sign of the being in question at the window, as if it did not deem this incursion between realms worthy of its time. But Shaman knew these beings better than any mere mortal, and was well aware that there was one action he could take that would certainly draw it forth.

  That action was to show his true face, the face he hid from the world. The face that no man―mundane or magickal―had seen for generations.

  Before he was prepared to do that, he needed to be certain that his true visage was not seen by those of the Circle. They would be quick to judge, quicker still to fear. And fear of him, in this time where he was all that stood between them and the brink of oblivion, would do no good.

  The first thing he did was to cut off Faith's view through his eyes. They would not be his eyes for much longer as the transition occurred.

  Secondly, he called through to Three.

  “It is time, old friend,” he told the triumvirate of men. “They must not see what is to come.”

  He felt the three heads nod in his periphery, and heard their chants as they began to act upon his request, blinding all forms of external observation that might garner a glimpse of the Gibson Desert. No eyes of man, nor magickian, whether by scrying pool or technology would be able to see what was about to occur. And once he was certain that Three's intent had been set, Shaman Kahgo took one final breath through the lips that had served him for so many generations of man, and commenced his return to his natural form.

  His skin bubbled and blistered, but it was his hair that was the first thing to shed, It cascaded down, slid off his shoulders, and collected at the ground around his feet. From where it once lay, his bald skull rippled and undulated. The follicles were stretched wide, torn open as thin tentacles burrowed out of his skin and slithered down the sides of his head. Each of them moved on their own volition, winding and weaving through the air.

  His jaw―which was not truly his jaw―dislocated itself and hung down, swinging back and forth as his gullet undulated in the chasm that was once his mouth. From within that darkness, great fingers of slick purple flesh clambered out, and tugged his jaw down all the more. Slits upon those fingers gasped open, to reveal mouths of their own, and within those mouths, further tendrils emerged, and upon those tendrils were bright white eyes that blinked as they met with the light of day.

  They had not seen it for some time, the light, having been hidden deep within him. For this was his true face, the face given to him by his father and his father before him. A face that man and magickian alike could never witness for fear of them going mad by merely the slightest glimpse. It was the face he had kept from the world―but for this time, in this place, where he was alone and attempting to interact with one that was closer to his kin than the billions that lived upon the land. In some ways, it was a relief to have the opportunity to let that face be seen. He had kept it hidden for so long, wearing a mask that encompassed his whole body, and allowed him to traverse the globe, to live amongst those that could not―by sight alone―tell that he was different from any one of them.

  He faced the window into the Outer Realms, and spoke with a bifurcated tongue that he had not used for centuries and beyond.

  “Dah'leya-sho'kah, Sothoth” he said, in a gurgled grumble, a language not of that realm, but from beyond the veil, words that were more those of monster than of man.

  There was a flurry of movement from the other side of the window. His utterance had pierced the realms as intended, and had drawn the interest, or at least the attention of one that was older than he, by billions upon billions of years. Not that the creatures that resided on the other side had any notion of time as a concept, at least not in the fashion with which man was a slave to it.

  A giant eye, at least five times taller than Shaman Kahgo opened at the window, and stared with an intensity that felt as though it was burning straight through his every fibre.

  “You flatter me with the use of the old tongue,” the beast said, the words throbbing through Kahgo's head. Each syllable reverberated at a low, pulsating frequency with an echo that rippled through his entire body. That voice was not meant for mankind to hear, and if one were to have heard them, they would not have a chance to know madness―for death would likely come for them before the insanity had a chance to take hold. “But you know, much as any other might, that flattery is akin to nothing but the most insignificant and short-lived of self pleasures, and has no true merit in and of itself.”

  Kahgo took a breath, and smiled with his myriad mouths, as he kept an eye on the creature from beyond the veil. It was not close to a genuine smile, but he had not used his true face in so long, that any attempt at a smile felt as though it were better than none.

  “It got your attention, and that was my intent.”

  “Intent.” The creature seemed to laugh, its massive eye squinted at the window, as if mocking the mere notion. ”With creatures such as these, living miniscule lives of parasites and fodder, and nothing more. Existing without purpose, fuelled by selfish desires for the self and nothing beyond, intent is an adorable concept.”

  “You have overridden the will of them, placed your intent where their intent once lay. . . and for what end? To voyage between the realms? At your age, you must know that such a journey is not advisable. . .”

  “Your concern, as the mortals say, is touching,” the gargantuan creature snarled. Kahgo could feel the sly smile in his mind's eye. “But there shall be no ill effects from the transition to come. . . The realm you occupy is plentiful, and shall do for a grand and sumptuous feast. Their fear for what lurks in the shadows makes them perfect subjects to rule over, their fears are their greatest weakness, manipulated by other men in such a tragic fashion. We shall see how they act, upon witnessing a being of true power, the likes of which has never existed in the Natural World―not in true form..”

  “It does not have to be that way,” Shaman protested. “This realm offers many prizes beyond the earth, a myriad planets that have opportunities equal and greater. You can easily claim one as your own, rather than claim this one in conquest. . . A god's life is lonely, and there is always the chance of revolt from one's subjects.”

  “Conquest implies there is something to conquer. . . and my observations thus far have taught me that the population are desperate for order, they are begging to be ruled, to be given a reason for their existence.”

  “Their existence has meaning, it is simply the case of many of them not realising that they have purpose. As with all things, even you and your kin, purpose does not present itself until the time is right,.”

  “Their time will come soon. . . Seven billion shall open the door, and then they will know their place, they will have found their purpose. They will understand why they have been created―to serve at my will.”

  “Gods come and go. . . Even those that have journeyed from beyond the veil have found that this land is more inhospitable than they first thought. As much as it seems these people wish to be ruled, deities do
not have as easy of a time of it as you assume.”

  “It is churlish to make such threats, let alone use such terms. . . The only gods the world of man has conjured are manifestations of fears and will. . . I shall be more than any deity the mundanes worship. I shall be there salvation. . . and even you, Sha'ma N'doda'k'rgo shall not stand in my way.”

  The feeling in his gut dropped again. The use of his name―his true name―was unexpected.

  “You. . . know me?” he stammered.

  “I know your line. . . thus I know your heart. And your father's line runs through you in the most tragic of fashions. . . It beats for those that have spread across the realm you have chosen to call your home. It is your weakness, this compassion.”

  “I did not choose it―this realm―it was chosen―it chose me.”

  A whisper echoed through Kahgo's periphery, not from the being that watched him from the Outer Realms, but from Three.

  “It is stalling,” the triptych of voices warned him. “There is a coalescing of energy around the globe. . . a grand ritual that is focussed on where you stand.”

  Kahgo's many eyes widened, as the window itself tore wider. The blood on the ground began to glow, a vibrant red with glimmers of green that took hold of the overall hue. The magick in the blood was being activated by the ritual, billions of mundanes with the same intent manipulating the sigils that he had drawn in the sand.

  The lines shifted, as did the letters, snaking to reshape and make a new purpose for the symbols. Kahgo reached out to try and take hold of the blood, to keep the sigils as they had been―but his magicks were no match for the might of seven billion mundanes with the intent of a god flowing through their veins.

  The window tore wider still, and with a sickly slurp, a tentacle ripped through the veil between realms and took hold of the gleaming edge of the slit in reality. The light burned it, smoke wafted from its slimy skin as it cooked and filled the air with the smell of meat―but the creature was so large, that the searing of one of its gargantuan tendrils barely had the effect of a papercut.