Nyarlathotep smiled. The smile spread over her lips…and then continued, farther than any human mouth should stretch, curling all the way to her ears.
Justinian flinched back with a gasp of shock. Nyarlathotep’s form swelled, and she let the pitiful mass that was all that remained of Stanford fall from her arms with a wet plop.
I craned my head back as Nyarlathotep finally took on her—its—true form. Or, if not that, at least a form closer to the truth than the wholesome mask it had used with Justinian. The creature before me towered at least twelve feet in height. Something that might have been a leathery cloak, or perhaps flaps of its own skin, hung loosely over most of its form. A half dozen arms of varying sizes reached from beneath the cloak. Its fingers ended in sharp points, and black chitin covered both hands and arms, as though it were as much insect as vertebrate. It had no legs, only a writhing tentacular mass.
There was no face beneath its tattered, leathery hood. Instead a nauseating void drew the eye further and further into emptiness.
I wrenched my gaze away with effort, panting. Black mist streamed from Nyarlathotep, and it stank of frigid air and slime. Its long fingers stroked the empty air, and I could feel their touch through the arcane lines, as though it were a spider plucking the threads of its web, and I the hapless fly caught in them. My stomach churned, and I wanted to flee screaming, or at least curl up into a ball and hide.
Justinian called out in Aklo, attempting a variation of the earth spell. Nyarlathotep’s fingers twitched on the lines, and the spell died away. Not destroyed as with the witch hunter’s blades, but rather simply reabsorbed into the warp and weft of the universe.
“You were but a means to an end,” Nyarlathotep told Justinian. Its voice reverberated in my skull, and it was all I could do not to clutch at my head. “The Endicotts were a force to be reckoned with. Something had to be done about them, and that was where you came in.”
Justinian backed up rapidly, his mouth gaping open. Nyarlathotep loomed over him, seeming to delight in his horror. “Thanks to you, the Endicotts are now all but destroyed. Which means your usefulness is at an end.”
Justinian tripped and fell to the ground, scrambling wildly back. “No,” he said. “No! I did this for the family! I…I…”
“You were used,” I said. “So much for the Endicott legacy.”
Justinian tried another spell, and again it failed. The squirming mass that had once been Stanford struggled to drag itself out of the way. Nyarlathotep plucked one of the arcane lines, and a Hound appeared, its reptilian skin reflecting the bloody light of the setting sun. Jaws gaping to reveal teeth like a row of knives, it began to stalk Justinian.
All of Nyarlathotep’s concentration was temporarily on the Keeper. I wasn’t going to get a better chance than this.
Hoping to strike a powerful blow before Nyarlathotep could undo any magic focused on it, I slapped my hand against the Needle.
The thing inside of it had recoiled from Nyarlathotep’s presence. Perhaps that meant it had no more affection for things of the Outside than the maelstrom did.
“Help me,” I said frantically. “Let me use the vortex, please!” I started to reach within—
Before I could draw the arcane fire into me, a hand with impossibly long, insectile fingers seized me by the collar and hauled me back. “Have you been talking to someone you shouldn’t? We’ll have to put an end to that. I wouldn’t want you giving her any ideas.”
I flew through the air, crashing to the ground a few feet away from the Needle. Justinian slumped near the doors into Balefire, clutching a bleeding arm. Why the Hound hadn’t killed him, I didn’t know—perhaps Nyarlathotep wished to torment him further, the way it had tormented Stanford. Another Hound materialized, blinking from place to place around the Needle, as though guarding it.
Whatever was inside the Needle, Nyarlathotep clearly hadn’t realized it—she?—had spoken to me. For some reason, Nyarlathotep didn’t want us to communicate.
Nyarlathotep loomed over me, its stinking shadow blocking out what little light remained. One of its supporting tentacles slithered across my shoe. The thing was impossibly cold, frost biting through leather and cotton into my toes, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out.
“The Endicott asked why you exist,” Nyarlathotep said to me. “I know the answer. Do you?”
“To fight you on both the land and the sea.” My heart pounded with terror, and my entire body ached from the battering it had taken, but I forced myself to stare defiantly at the monster towering above me.
“Foolish spark.” It leaned down, its empty hood radiating the cold between the stars. “You were created to be sacrificed. If the maelstrom succeeds, you and your sister will both die.”
Chapter 41
Griffin
Rupert led us rapidly up the spiral, pausing only long enough to grab a lantern, until we reached a huge pair of doors reinforced in iron. “Let’s hope they didn’t change the locks,” he said, and laid his hand on the doors. He spoke a few words, and there came a click.
The doors swung open, revealing an enormous space filled with weapon racks, cabinets, chests, and armor stands. Kegs of oil were stacked in one corner, no doubt to be launched at enemies, then set aflame by sorcerers.
“The witch hunter’s swords and daggers are useful against ordinary sorcerers,” Rupert said as we stepped inside. “But I doubt they will be adequate against a being such as the Man in the Woods. I’ve been wracking my brain all the way here for any sort of magical weapon that might prove effective against him.”
Hattie moved around the room with a determined air, picking up equipment. Caltrops that glowed in my shadowsight, a witch hunter’s sword to go along with her daggers, a short flail she tucked into her belt. She opened a cabinet and took out a pair of bracers, which she held out to Heliabel. “You’re the only sorceress we’ve got right now, so take these. They’ll help amplify simple spells—fire, water, frost, that sort of thing.”
As Heliabel strapped them on, she said, “And the ketoi artifacts?”
“In the vault along with…well, some rather disturbing items, or so I hear.” Rupert led the way to the back of the armory, where a second, smaller door stood. Cast from solid iron, it had neither lock nor latch, and fit so closely into the frame I couldn’t have slipped a knife between.
“There is one complication,” Rupert said, studying the door. “It can only be opened with the blood of either the Keeper or the Seeker.”
Curse the man—every moment we wasted, Ival was in danger. “You might have told us that to begin with and spared us the trip.”
Hattie cocked her head at Rupert. “I get what you’re thinking. Need to borrow a knife?”
“What are you about?” Christine asked.
“I believe I mentioned once before that neither Seeker nor Keeper are an inherited title.” Rupert rolled up his cuff and extended his hand. “The current Seeker or Keeper usually designates who they wish to follow them, in case they are killed or incapacitated during a crisis. Once order is restored, of course, the rest of the family will vote to either make the appointment permanent, or to replace the temporary Seeker or Keeper with someone else.”
Hattie pricked his finger with the tip of one of her knives. A bead of blood welled out. “Rupert here is the emergency Seeker,” she said. “Minerva appointed him, what, a couple of years back? If Justinian hadn’t seen fit to drown her, we’d be well and truly buggered, but he did. Which makes Rupert the Seeker of Truth.”
Rupert pressed his finger to a small depression in the center of the door as she spoke. There came a series of loud clicks, and it swung open soundlessly. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and I realized he’d feared it wouldn’t work.
Heliabel lit the lantern with a word. Rupert held it aloft, the golden glow of its light spreading across the interior of the room only reluctantly. Shadows clustered thick in the corners. A strange oppressive feeling to the room pressed down upon me.
The vault also glowed with magic in my shadowsight. Nearly every object was imbued with arcane energy. And what objects they were. A severed human hand, dried into a claw, lay chained to a plinth as though it might crawl away under its own power. A crude wooden doll, its body studded with dozens of bronze nails, sat on a shelf beside what was unmistakably an Occultum Lapidem of the umbrae. There were carved bones, sullenly glowing stones, and intricately laced objects of wirework whose purpose I couldn’t begin to guess at.
And above all else there were books. Some appeared to be nearly pristine, while others were mere tattered fragments. Scrolls spilled off shelves, and clay tablets such as the ones Whyborne studied were stacked high.
God, if only he could see this. He could be lost here happily for days.
“Here.” Rupert went to one of the shelves and selected one of the more damaged books. He opened the cover and nodded. “Good—the cipher is sewn in.”
My heart quickened. “Is that your copy of the Wisborg Codex?”
“It is.” He tucked it into his vest for safekeeping. “As for the ketoi artifacts…”
“I found them,” Heliabel called from the very back of the vault.
Though the artifacts were clearly of ketoi make, they were like no other weapons of theirs I had ever seen. Each one seemed to have been forged from a single piece of metal, without join or seam. As for what the strange alloy was, I had no idea. It was black, with a greenish-gold cast to it. Each was also heavily carved with what appeared to be shallow channels, which seemed more than decorative, though I couldn’t guess at their purpose.
Besides the obvious Sword, Spear, and Shield, there was an odd, pagoda-shaped object made from the same metal, perhaps a foot tall and as broad across. A sphere of deep blue stone was set into its peak.
Heliabel touched it with one clawed hand. “This must be the Source.”
“The Source of what?” Hattie asked.
“The ketoi have no sorcerers of their own,” Heliabel said. “If they needed to use magic weapons, they would have to have some way outside of themselves to channel that power. I think the Source is meant to store magic, in essence, that can then be fed to the weapons. See how each has a stone set into it, matching the one atop the Source?”
She was right—the pommel of the Sword, the butt of the Spear, and the center of the kite-shaped Shield all had the same stone. The blue spheres sat in the middle of the maze of channel-like carvings, which must have something to do with the magic.
“There’s only one problem,” I said. “None of them are showing any arcane energy in my shadowsight at all. They’re inert.”
“The Source works only in the right hands. Ketoi or hybrid hands.” Heliabel picked up the Source. “Arm yourselves, and leave this part up to me.”
Chapter 42
Whyborne
Rain sluiced down around me as the storm arrived in earnest. Nyarlathotep’s words made no sense. The maelstrom didn’t create Persephone and me just so we could die.
“Liar,” I said. “Or do you imagine I’m as easily swayed as Justinian? As my brother?”
The ragged leather of Nyarlathotep’s cloak blew in the storm wind. “If you continue on the path the maelstrom has set, you will die at its behest. Or did you imagine it shared your pathetic human morality? Your tiny, insignificant desires? You are nothing but a vessel meant to hold water, to be abandoned, empty, when that water is cast back into the sea from which it came.”
I shook my head. Though I feared he was right about the maelstrom’s lack of what I would consider morality, the rest made no sense. “Why should I listen to you? You would have murdered Persephone and me on Stanford’s behalf!”
“Your brother seemed more amenable. Naturally I was disappointed by his failure,” Nyarlathotep said. The thing that had been Stanford flinched and drew into as tight a ball as it could, as if trying unsuccessfully to hide. “But imagine my delight when you came to me.”
Curse the Endicotts. If I survived this, I was never leaving Widdershins again.
Unfortunately, my chances seemed perilously low. I could only pray Griffin and the others would somehow escape this island of horror, though how I couldn’t imagine.
“One fragment will not be as good as two. But it will be better than none. Bow to me. Submit and allow me to use your power.” Nyarlathotep’s insectile fingers plucked the arcane lines like strings again. I felt one vibrate deep within, and a vision unfolded in my mind.
I stood in the streets of Widdershins, but not as I had left them. Some cataclysm seemed to have befallen my home. The houses were dark, windows shattered and doors torn from their hinges. Great rifts opened in the streets, and an electric trolley lay on its side as though it had been thrown with terrible force. Some of the buildings were nothing more than burned husks.
The vision shifted, and I glimpsed the shoreline. Ships and boats littered the coast, as though hurled onto land by some immense storm. I couldn’t tell what might have become of their crews, if there had even been any aboard at the time.
Then I stood upon the bridge over the Cranch River, at the very heart of the maelstrom. Persephone and I lay there—or rather, our bodies did. Our hands were linked tightly together, and very distantly I could hear Griffin scream my name.
I blinked and found myself on my hands and knees on Carn Moreth. Rain poured from the sky, and I tipped my head back, letting it wash away my tears. I felt raw, as though something had scoured my very soul.
This must have been very like what Justinian had seen. Visions of despair. Of war and chaos.
Of death.
“Everything I showed you is the result of the maelstrom’s planning.” Nyarlathotep’s dark form seemed to blot out the sky. “You will die—you are meant to die. Unless you accept my offer. Bind yourself to me, let me touch the maelstrom through you, and I will save you. Once the masters return, you will survive the conflict.”
A terrible weight of certainty pressed down on me. Nyarlathotep trying to influence me, no doubt—but knowing that didn’t make it feel any less real. “And my friends?” I managed to say.
“They will listen to you. They follow you already, and if you do not tell them of our deal, they shall continue to do so. On the day of the masters’ return, you have but to lead them in the manner I instruct. Widdershins will be spared. You will live.” It paused. “Defy me, and the maelstrom will take you back into itself, as it has always intended. The vessel of your flesh cast aside, and all your memories and desires and hopes absorbed into something incomprehensibly larger than yourself. You will have no more consciousness, no more life, than you did before it split you off and put you into this form.”
My fingers tightened in a tuft of grass protruding between the stones. It clung to life, fought to survive on this inhospitable crag. Baked by the summer sun, torn by the wind, but still it struggled to continue its existence.
Perhaps Nyarlathotep lied to me, as it had lied to Justinian. But what if it hadn’t? What if everything it told me was simply the unvarnished truth?
I didn’t want to die.
Griffin’s words about strategy and emotion came back to me. He’d chided me for insisting on coming here, for not making the sensible decision and remaining in Widdershins while my love and my friends went into danger.
The maelstrom was nothing but strategy. Centuries of planning and gathering, and it didn’t care if its creation had turned out to be a horrible murder town, so long as that murder town fulfilled its purpose.
But it had made me not to strategize, but to be its heart. To feel and love and have a human life.
That love—those emotions—left me with only one possible choice now, in the face of a creature far greater than myself. My creator, in a very real way, who now offered to become my savior as well.
“My entire life, I’ve fought to keep what I have,” I said. “First against my father, who would have remade me in his image. Then against Blackbyrne, who would have killed the man I loved. Time and again
, I’ve struggled to hold onto what was important to me in the face of those who would have destroyed it.”
I sat back on my heels. Stanford had stilled his thrashing in the grass, and his familiar eyes were fixed on my face. I tried to concentrate on them and not the surrounding horror. “But I’ve realized something over the last few days. That isn’t enough. I have to think about the future. Justinian spoke of his legacy, about its loss, but it’s more than that. The choices we make every day shape the world future generations will live in. The ketoi children, the Endicott children, Stanford’s sons, and Christine’s baby…they all deserve the best world we can create.”
I rose slowly to my feet and lifted my gaze to the yawning void of Nyarlathotep’s face. “And if giving it to them costs my life, then so be it. I’ll be damned if I let you and your kind ruin this world without a fight.”
Chapter 43
Whyborne
“Insolent spark,” Nyarlathotep roared. “You dare defy me? You are my creation. You must obey me.”
My hair stuck to my face, and the rain leached warmth from my body as it soaked through clothing that had never properly dried to begin with. “I spent a good part of my life refusing to obey my human father. Why the devil would I submit to a monster like you?”
The figure before me seemed to grow in size, leathery cloak flaring out around it. “If you refuse to be of use, you will suffice for my amusement. You will beg for death long before I’m finished with you.”
The Hound that had been guarding the Needle let out a startled yelp of pain.
Nyarlathotep’s attention—and mine, to be fair—jerked to it. I had the confused impression of a mass of writhing tentacles wrapping around its scaly body, feeding tubes stabbing into its flesh again and again.
Stanford.
The Hound tried to blink out of Stanford’s grasp, but—perhaps because my brother was also now a thing of the Outside—only succeeded in dragging him with it. Further from the Needle.
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