Sygillis of Metatron

by Ren Garcia

  Magyart turned from his screen. "We are 100 percent max stable. Straight and true."

  Sygillis stopped and staggered. Kilos caught her.

  Released from the Dirge, Mapes went to the console and looked over the readings himself. He then took off his hat and looked up at the now-silver, shining spar, mouth open.

  "Remarkable," he said.

  "Are you all right, Syg?" Kilos asked.

  "I'm fine … just a little winded."

  "Will this hold? Do you have to maintain it?"

  "It will hold on its own."

  Mapes strode toward her. "Lady Sygillis, let me assist you."

  "I'm fine," she said in a harsh voice, not wanting him anywhere near her. He stopped.

  Kilos turned to Mapes. "Mapes, I want this vessel sounded from tip to top and I'll expect your report at the top of the hour. If, at that time, you determine we are fit to travel, I want mark set for full revolutions back to Ergos, understood!"

  "Aye, Lieutenant!" he said.

  With that, Kilos, Sygillis, and the Marines left the bay. The Marines, always a boisterous lot, cheered Syg's name the whole way.

  The Sisters stood about, looking up at the silver spar, arguing silently amongst themselves, debating whether such a thing was legal or not.

  Mapes watched Syg leave, his eyes never leaving her. No Blanchefort was worthy of a woman like this, he thought.

  * * * * *

  He had one of those dreams as he lay there in the dust—one of those dreams that fully unfold and play out, yet last only a moment.

  He dreamt of Syg and his castle in the summer—still a cold place in the summertime, but very bearable for the non-Blancheforts. They sat in the Telmus Grove, amid the flowers and the old Vith splendor, ready to enjoy a meal. His sisters, Poe and dear Pardock, were there, all smiles as usual. Poe was having a good day; she seemed almost normal, her affliction held at bay for the moment. Kilos and her husband were also in attendance—Mr. Kilos, the small librarian and professor from Tusck, a man whom he liked very much but rarely got to see. Kilos was out of her Marine uniform for once, lovely in a colorful summer dress.

  And Syg sat next to him, her green eyes full of happiness and love.

  He said something to her.

  He said, "I love you …"

 

  The dream was over. He was pulled back from the happy scene at Blanchefort Castle to the dull, dreary, pain-filled landscape of Metatron.

  What happened? His mind was lost in fog.

 

  Metatron—someone was talking to him.

  Ergos, Loviatar … or both at once?

 

  Davage opened his eyes and there, charging toward him at a howl, was the tall Black Hat, her battle axe once again in hand high over her head. She was ready to pull it down in a sickening death stroke, cleaving him in twain.

  This was it.

  Fully awake now, he did the only thing he could do—he lit his Sight, golden light flooding out of his eyes for possibly the last time.

  Again, as before, the Black Hat covered her eyes to avoid his maddening, hypnotic gaze.

  Her battle axe hitched in mid-swing.

  He had a moment—a sharp second in which to act.

  He un-saddled his CARG.

  With both hands and an agonized shoulder, he sent it whistling upwards, a heavy coppery wave.

  Copper CARG and Shadow tech battle axe met …

  9

  THE CARG OF HOUSE BLANCHEFORT

  The CARG had been the ancestral weapon of House Blanchefort for hundreds of years, since the time of the Elders. A novel thing, it squarely belonged to a family of weapons called LosCapricos, being of those weapons conceived in the heady time of the Elders not necessarily for functionality but instead for uniqueness, to bear a symbol for the House that created it. Each Great House had its own LosCapricos, for better or for ill. There were hundreds of them. They were afforded a special place in law. No murders could be committed with LosCapricos weapons, only noble killings, and because the Elders had a hand in their creation, they were always spelled using upper-case letters.

  It was said that the CARG had originally been designed by Lennibus, Lord of Blanchefort, and it had met with the approval of the Elder Nylax himself—a rare and lofty honor.

  There had been many CARGs created through the centuries, all forged by Blanchefort hands. Though the metals used and the devices varied, all CARGs were generally of the same configuration. It was a hilted, extendable, hollow metal tube, with a radius of about two and a half inches. It was usually adjustable from a fully collapsed length of two and a half feet to nine feet at full stretch. The end of the tube was always capped with either a sharp point or a gilded horn. Except for the hilt at the bottom, it was ramrod straight, like a pole, and indeed, the word CARG came from the old Vith word cargengian, which meant simply: long pole.

  To the novice, to the unfamiliar and untrained, the CARG was nothing more than a collapsible, cylindrical metal pole with a pretty hilt at the bottom. To the touch, it was perfectly smooth, like the slippery, cool surface of a water pipe. To move it about in one's hand offered nothing more—cool and smooth.

  Certainly, if used as a bludgeoning weapon, like a club or heavy bone-breaking metal bar or spear, the CARG could be thought of as an effective weapon—even a deadly one. There was no question of that.

  But, place it in the hands of a master, a Blanchefort with years of training, the CARG assumed a much more deadly pose.

  The apparently smooth surface of the metal tube was microfacetted, covered with millions of tiny indentations—a Blanchefort trademark and specialty. When moved in just the right fashion, those facets engaged and severed anything they came into contact with. When moved correctly, the CARG "sang"; the frictionless cutting stroke made a whistling sound that was unforgettable.

  In short, the CARG, wielded by a master, could slice through solid rock.

  There were certainly a great number of the LosCapricos weapons that were so strange, so bizarre, that they could never really be considered anything more than a ceremonial weapon and symbol. The GRAMPA of House Vincent was a beautiful five-segmented axe that could be more dangerous to its wielder than to the enemy. The VERDIS of House Fallz was a bladed, jeweled net that, while elegantly macabre, was virtually impossible to use.

  The CRANIMER of House Durst was not really classifiable as anything in particular, weapon or not. A collection of tubes, metal balls, and wire—no one recalled its lore. Lady Hathaline of Durst, Captain of the Fleet, often told her childhood friend, Captain Davage, that if she ever figured out how to use it, he would have to marry her— that he'd promised her. She wasn't joking either, but unfortunately, she never did solve its inscrutable mystery.

  Others, though, were brilliant and quite deadly. The CEROS of House Probert was a small handheld device composed of sharp, interlocking metal arms. When thrown, it took on a life of its own—it became almost as energy and always returned to its master's hand. The BEOL of House Conwell was the famous "Wind Cannon" of old that had won many battles. The elegant VUNKULA of House Grenville was a type of belt equipped with a long, segmented tail. When the belt was worn, the tail, through means unknown, sprang to life and unerringly follow its master's commands like a third arm. The tail could be fitted with any number of attachments and could strike like lightning—Sixtus of Grenville was deadly with it. It was said he was rarely without his gold and silver VUNKULA, hidden deep under the folds of his garish clothes—never used but always ready to strike. It was said he maintained a number of hidden pockets in his coat full of powders and substances that his VUNKULA could dip into and strike for a variety of effects.

  And the strangest of all: the NIGHTMARE of House Monama was a large hair pin embedded with a dark stone that was said to be able to alter reality itself.

  The CARG was always considered to be in the latter category, a brilliant, deadly weapon, but for years, it seem
ed destined to go the way of the GRAMPA and the VERDIS and the CRANIMER—a charming, odd fixture of the past.

  Sadric, Lord of Blanchefort, had learned CARG lore from his father, Maserfeld, a burly, brutish, and somewhat barbaric man who had the unfortunate but well-earned reputation for being a raider and a brigand. Always raging that his son appeared to be a bit more of a dandy than he hoped for, Maserfeld relentlessly rammed the CARG lore down Sadric's dainty, powdered throat, hoping to wrench the man from out of the silken linens and fancy shoes. Despite himself, despite his apparent frailty, Sadric learned its lore and became the CARG's master.

  Sadric went one step further. He eventually delighted his father by creating the strongest CARG ever built, the King CARG, the Masterpiece CARG. He created it not because he really wanted a CARG for himself, but because Maserfeld swore to disinherit him and give everything to Herdie, Lord of Grenville, Maserfeld's archrival if he didn't. It was better, he said, to heap his wealth and titles upon an enemy than to give it to a CARGless, good-for-nothing son.

  Maserfeld's CARG was a singularly ugly weapon made crudely from iron and obsidian. He'd named it "Bathilda" and never cleaned it—refused for it to be cleaned; years of gore and punctured flesh had built up on its shaft like an awful varnish.

  If Sadric was to have a CARG, it would be a fine, shining, beautiful weapon. It will be something that shall look lovely saddled at his waist at a party.

  It took five years to forge. On a "mission," Sadric acquired the metals for it from exotic locations. He stole the core metal for it from the Borune Mountains located on the Xaphan Loviatar, which, he had heard, was known for its great strength and best of all, pleasing color. The taking of this metal was a slight for which Loviatar swore everlasting vengeance.

  More metals were needed. Sneaking into a grand Grenville ball dressed as a dark, mysterious woman, he "acquired" the hard, unyielding tip and final seven segments from Herdie of Grenville's VUNKULA and threw it in for good measure—a slight that was said to have ratcheted-up the Blanchefort-Grenville feud in earnest, for Herdie had been "smitten" by this tall, beautiful "mystery woman." More followed.

  Loviatar's metal, an elegant, heavy, coppery alloy, took years to heat and properly forge. The Sisterhood of Light, with whom Sadric was very friendly, prayed over the forging and blessed it, adding strange materials of their own design. Once made, Sadric's CARG was heavy, solid, sharp, and nearly indestructible. The Grand Abbess of Pithnar, a close friend of Sadric's, placed an enchantment on it so that he could lift it with ease—to anybody else trying to pick it up, it was a monstrously heavy seventy-seven pounds.

  It was beautiful. It had an odd X-shaped hilt, as the shaft of the CARG was circular, Sadric reasoned it didn't have a top or bottom. He dedicated each arm of the X to a different season. For its horn, he was inspired one evening at a wine party and created the tip of his CARG as a twisting cork-screw.

  Indeed, it was that beautiful coppery CARG that first attracted the attention of Lady Hermilane, the blue-haired fourth daughter of House Hannover, its glinting light and cork-screw catching her eye as she danced about the ballroom floor with Marist, Lord of Grenville, Herdie's son. Hermilane was one of the few ladies of standing who was a LosCapricos master in her own right—she being a master of the GEORGE WIND, a small, floating sword. Excusing herself, she went up to Sadric and inquired about his glinting CARG in earnest, forgetting all about the red-faced Lord Grenville. She, one day became Sadric's wife and bore his children—and all begun because she liked his weapon. More fire on the Blanchefort-Grenville hatred.

  The King CARG had an additional quality that no CARG previously had—it could be thrown. Whirling perfectly balanced in a heavy arc, it relentlessly thudded into its target. Maserfeld roared with delight as Sadric demonstrated what it could do. You certainly couldn't throw Bathilda and expect to hit anything. It could even be thrown with a cutting stroke, a lop-sided, bouncing, cavorting arc that buried the shaft to its hilt.

  It was said Maserfeld went to his grave smiling—his dainty, foolish son had created a kick-ass, flying, woman-enchanting CARG that will have their ancestors cheering and mug hoisting in the halls of the dead.

  If Maserfeld had had his druthers, Sadric would have used this deadly CARG to lop off a few heads, bury it up the asses of a few cretins, and sack a few villages. Such, though, was not to be the case. Sadric never sacked any villages, never loped off any heads … none of that. He was no warrior, no killer.

  He'd only ever used it in battle once, after the birth of his second daughter Poe, when those strange, savage people came from the darkness, from thin air, and tried to take her newly born and wailing from Hermilane's arms. In that instance, he used his CARG, in that instance he fought like a lion. And those savage people fell before it.

  After that, his CARG became nothing more than a ceremonial show piece. He, at his many parties, loved to delight his guests by demonstrating the CARG's power. He showed them that it was a smooth, unbladed tube. He showed them how heavy it was. He then sliced off thin, straight cross-sections of a large petrified tree stump with the CARG, the cutting stroke making its usual high-pitched whistling sound. And his guests clapped and laughed.

  When his son and heir, Davage, was born, Sadric thought not to teach him how to use the CARG at all. He wished his son to be more like him, a suave society man, a man who appreciated social functions and invitations and gossip, and he felt the CARG had no place there except as an obscure decoration and coat-of-arms motif.

  As Maserfeld had wanted Sadric to follow in his bloody, brigand's footsteps, so Sadric wished the same from his son.

  Such, however, was not to be the case.

  Davage had a lot of old Maserfeld in him—a rugged toughness and adventurous spirit, sans the lout and the brigand—that Sadric could not squelch or deny no matter how much powder and wigs and cloth finery he threw at him. Davage yearned for action and adventure, and he got it in sometimes novel places. He learned to fist fight from his sister Pardock, of all people; she also had a bit of rowdy Maserfeld in her. It was said that Davage and Pardock often snuck in disguise to the village by the bay and brawl in the bars with the locals. It was one of their favorite things to do.

  His mother taught him the GEORGE WIND lore, Hermilane being deadly with it. In later years, Davage often mused that some of the most savage and desperate sword fights he'd ever been involved in were with his mother.

  But Davage wanted the CARG lore. He wanted it like nothing else.

  Sadric told his son that, when he could lift it, he may be trained— Sadric thinking its great weight would put a close to the matter. Unfortunately, when Davage was fourteen, he lifted it off its display stand and presented to his father. And so, Sadric relented, and in the old Vith halls of Castle Blanchefort, he taught his son how to use the CARG. He hoped that he never had to raise it in a fight. He hoped it would remain a simple party favor.

  Now, on the dirty amber plains of Ergos, it would be the strength of that CARG, the King CARG, the LosCapricos symbolic weapon of House Blanchefort that was once used to delight elegant party guests, that guarded Davage's life, Sadric's only son…

  * * * * *

  CCCCLLLAAANNNGGG! from the CARG. AHHHHHHHH! from the Shadow tech.

  CARG and black battle axe met in mid air, metal ringing and Shadow tech screaming, and both combatants were knocked off balance with the force of the blow. Panting, the Black Hat regarded Davage for a moment, astounded that this man was still alive, that his weapon had been equal to hers.

  Davage Sighted; he saw her coming again.

  The Black Hat plowed her battle axe through the ground in a vicious up stroke.

  Davage met it and turned it aside.

  She swung back around and over her head in a cleaving down stroke.

  Dav met it again and turned it aside.

  She stumbled with the force of the turn.

  She was wide open. He could send his CARG right through her heart if he wanted.

&nbs
p; He had it in his head that he wanted to save this Black Hat. He wanted to make another Syg—he wanted to wake the Elder within her, to watch her grow into a person, watch her learn to smile and laugh and appreciate the touch of another.

  For Bethrael, lying unconscious beyond, he figured she wouldn't be too difficult to turn; she had seemed remarkably docile so far.

  But this one, this tall Black Hat, she was savage and dangerous and eager to fight. Would he be taking too much of a chance with the lives of his crew if he brought her aboard? Will she blow herself sky high the first moment she got?

  Should he kill her and be done with it?

  She tried hooking his CARG with her battle axe, trying to rip it from his grasp.

  He turned the CARG and sliced through her battle axe, the huge blade spinning off widely and turning to soot.