Destroyer of Worlds

by Mark Chadbourn

  Faint lights appeared in the main street, but they were so dim it took Ruth and Tom a moment to realise that their illumination was being smothered almost as much as the sun’s rays. Figures felt their way hesitantly along the now-deserted street, searching for the path back to the place where they laid their heads. As the thin lights passed, Ruth occasionally glimpsed the outlines of those who had fallen.

  ‘We should get back to Church,’ Ruth began. ‘Regroup, decide what we’re going to do now—’

  Tom silenced her with a sharp squeeze on her arm. ‘Do you hear something?’

  Feeling along the wall, they came to the end of the alley. Across the way someone was trying to light one of the streetlamps. In the silence that had not existed in the street for many months, the hiss of the oil resonated, but from beyond it came the measured step of several feet on the cobbles and the ring of metal catching against walls.

  Unable to pierce the darkness that lay at the end of the street, Ruth and Tom watched, neither realising they were holding their breath in anticipation. In the distance, tiny lights bobbed like fireflies, the dim torches of people stumbling home. When one winked out, Ruth thought her eyes were tricking her. But then a second and a third disappeared, and when the fourth extinguished it was accompanied by a faint cry.

  ‘The Enemy is coming,’ Tom said redundantly.

  He tried to pull Ruth back into the alley, but she resisted. ‘I want to see what we’re up against.’

  The soupy darkness didn’t give up its ghosts until they were almost upon Ruth and Tom’s hiding place. Emerging from the unfolding black were figures that echoed the transformed victims of the blast Ruth had seen in the marketplace: the flesh had been stripped from their skulls, though the roving eyes remained, and into the bone had been embedded studs that created a mosaic effect; red and green feathers tufted from the back of a simple circlet headdress. They wore only a metal band across their shoulders that ended in a gold amulet, and a scarlet and orange cloth bound around their loins and fastened by a thick gold belt. A round shield fringed with feathers was strapped to their left forearm and in that hand they carried a wooden club. In their right hand they gripped a wooden spear with an obsidian blade.

  ‘What are they - Aztec? Mayan? Incan?’ Ruth whispered.

  Though her voice was barely audible, the head of the nearest warrior cranked around in her direction. Tom pulled her back into the alley. Pressed against the wall and listening, Ruth could tell the warrior was poised to investigate. Before it could make any move, however, it was distracted by a man staggering towards the single flickering streetlamp. Instantly, the warrior ran forwards, driving his spear into the man’s gut and up so that the shocked victim didn’t even have time to cry out as he was lifted aloft. Thrashing wildly, he expired within a moment. The warrior dumped the body and continued after his comrades, the tip of his spear rattling across the cobbles.

  Across the street others from the small band entered the buildings and brought screams within seconds. Though the warriors’ numbers were small, their slaughter was systematic.

  Levelling her spear, Ruth prepared to run across the street until Tom grabbed her forcefully. ‘Take a break from being an idiot,’ he snapped. ‘There’s one of you, and however good you are with that spear and your Craft, you won’t last long out there.’

  Ruth hesitated, then nodded. ‘Let’s find the others.’

  As they set off down the alley, Ruth glanced back once, but the dark had already swallowed the street. The screams lingered, though, joining together to become one devastating cry of terror.

  2

  Church jerked awake from another searing image of himself lying on a table, as pale as death, ghostly faces moving around him. He had started to believe that the recurring dream was not a dream at all, but he refused to examine his nascent suspicions of what it really was. Every time he skirted it, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach; a part of him knew the truth, he was convinced. A part of him was truly afraid.

  Exhaustion had left his head nodding as he waited in the rooftop café, but now he could see that the planned rendezvous would not be happening. He was alone in the chill dark with only the poor light from his sword for comfort. The sticky jungle smells and the dry desert wind still reached him, but he could see nothing beyond the edge of the roof. The constant screams and panicked cries rising up from the street made him feel queasy. All he could think of was Ruth still out there, trapped in the dark with the mob and, he feared from some of the sounds he heard, something deadlier.

  It would have been more sensible to wait there for the others to find their way back to him, but his concern for Ruth overrode logic, and after a while pacing around the table anxiously, he made his way cautiously to the door.

  His sword’s Blue Fire gave him barely two feet of visibility. He was little better than blind in a sprawling city filled with danger.

  Inside the building it was still stifling despite the temperature drop, and deafening with the cacophony of the many, many people crowded into every square foot of the ten floors, with only the café level kept out of bounds by the brutal guardians employed by the owner.

  Trailing his left hand down the dry plaster, Church slowly descended the stairs to the next level, the stink of sweat and other bodily fluids increasing with every step. Each floor was a single room, used for some public function - a library, a meeting place - but their previous purpose had been almost obscured by makeshift beds and ramshackle tent-homes. The disturbed-hive drone of voices had increased considerably from the last time Church had passed through, the result, he guessed, of news of the descending darkness being passed on to those who were inside when it fell.

  Reaching the next floor, he steeled himself for the arduous task of picking his way through the cluttered mass to the next flight of stairs against the opposite wall. Tiny lights bobbed here and there - candles, lanterns - small comfort to their owners but no use to him.

  His very first step brought a squeal from someone underfoot, igniting a ripple of panic across the room and cries of, ‘What’s wrong?’ and, ‘Who is there?’ Holding Caledfwlch before him like a torch, Church picked out his steps carefully, but the flickering blue light was a beacon of hope to any it fell upon. Soon pale faces caught in its glare were drawing up and moving in, curious and desperate. And as hands grasped him and pleas for assistance were issued, the desperate yearning for help swept across the room like fire.

  Within minutes, bodies pressed against Church on every side, spinning him around, shaking his sense of direction. Fingers tore at his clothes and his skin, growing harder and angrier when they received no response. At first, he entreated people to allow him passage, but it proved hopeless and he quickly realised his only option was to put his head down and drive himself through the dense wall of bodies.

  The next flight of stairs was located more by luck than judgement. Careering down them two steps at a time, he almost fell out of control in the dark, landing roughly on the next floor. The crush of people drawn to him began almost immediately.

  Choking with the smell of bodies and the heat, Church continued to drive his way through the mass. Halfway across the room, amidst the pleadings and cries, a familiar, ironic voice broke through at his left ear: ‘Don’t you just hate them? Stupid, witless sheep.’

  Church whirled, but all he saw were troubled, pale faces and grasping hands. The Libertarian had retreated back into the dark.

  His heart pounding, Church renewed his efforts to press through the crowd. Faces came and went in the tight circle around him. Rough hands at his back became threatening. However fast he searched around the constantly looming bodies in the limited area of visibility, he knew he would never be able to see the Libertarian until the killer was on top of him.

  He resorted to throwing people roughly out of his way, but that only increased the crowd’s anger and made his passage even more difficult. Soon they would be attacking him instead of pleading for help. He forced himself to calm down.


  The next two floors passed in a blur of tension. Church knew the Libertarian would not have departed; he was sickened to realise he was starting to know him as well as he knew himself. There was a thick vein of sadism in the pacing of his torment: how long could the Libertarian hold off before moving in to strike?

  ‘Why don’t you kill them?’ The sly voice appeared at his right ear.

  Church whirled again. A glimpse of red eyes disappearing into the dark. ‘Come closer and see what you get, you bastard!’ Church yelled.

  The crowd grew more agitated. As he pushed forwards, the flat of his blade clipped a woman’s head and she shrieked as if he had stabbed her. Angry shouts deafened him. Someone punched his back; another tried to grab Caledfwlch and he had to throw the man to one side, brandishing the sword as a threat. It only maddened the crowd further.

  Stay calm, he told himself. Any more and they’ll rip you limb from limb.

  Buying time, he apologised to the woman and placated those near to him, before moving on. Three more floors passed slowly, but as he entered the eighth floor down he caught a wisp of smoke.

  You bastard. It was all Church had time to think before the panic started. Off to his left a dim light flickered, growing larger by the second as the blaze spread swiftly through the tinder-dry building, the jumble of possessions, bedding and shelters. Deafening shrieks became one voice as the entire floor moved as a single entity towards the stairs, crushing and trampling. Church was carried along in the flow, choking from the thick, acrid smoke as the temperature in the room intensified rapidly.

  Soon even the supernatural darkness could not contain the inferno, and it blazed brightly as it raced across the room, consuming people, bringing down roof timbers in a cascade of sparks, raising a wall of heat that felled the young and the old as soon as it touched them.

  ‘You don’t have to kill them all!’ Church raged impotently, torn between fury and bitter guilt that an entire building filled with people was being slaughtered just to get at him.

  ‘Oh, but I do.’

  Church turned, and there was the Libertarian, his eyes as red as the flames that formed an infernal halo around him.

  ‘Almost like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?’

  Before Church could raise Caledfwlch, the Libertarian jabbed a finger into a pressure point on Church’s neck and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  3

  For once the streets of the Court of Endless Horizons were empty. Through the maze of dark alleys, side streets, squares and gardens, Bearskin and Shadow John led Veitch and Shavi at a breathless pace. Occasionally, Bearskin would stop to sniff the air or examine the dusty ground. To Shavi, there was never anything to be seen, but Bearskin would always nod and move on confidently.

  It was Shadow John who forged the way, ensuring no obstacles lay in their path so they could advance at speed.

  ‘How the bleedin’ hell do you do that?’ Veitch asked him as they moved quickly through another square packed with market stalls.

  Smiling, Shadow John leaned in and tapped the side of his left eye. ‘I am more at home in the shadows than I am in the light,’ he said. ‘That is where my true nature becomes clear. Best not to look too closely.’

  Shavi closed his ears to the screams that regularly punctured the dark, but his alien eye would not allow him any respite. It had taken to showing him a constant procession of the spirits of the recently departed as they made their way towards the Grim Lands. In the grey stream, he saw the echoes of the terror of their final moments, and the dismay, and the confusion about their current state, so rapidly had they been snatched from life. The stream was becoming a flood. He wanted to look away, but could not.

  ‘The Enemy are using the darkness as cover to slaughter in their search for us,’ he said.

  Veitch was enough of a friend to catch the hint of distress in Shavi’s words, and he gave Shavi’s arm a comforting squeeze. ‘We all knew it was going to get a lot worse, mate,’ Veitch said quietly. ‘Keep your head up. We’re going to make the bastards pay for what they’re doing.’

  Though he could not ignore the ghosts, Shavi responded to Veitch’s words and refocused on the search.

  Bearskin came to a sudden halt. ‘I smell smoke,’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘Here!’ Shadow John had disappeared into the gloom a few paces ahead, but he raced back excitedly. ‘I think I have found what you are searching for. But we have company!’

  Hurrying close behind him, they came to the stone wall of some impressive building, its shape and identity lost to the dark. A small pitched-roof porch protruded from the wall, with Doric columns flanking a gate of iron railings. Three of the Aztec warriors were using their spears to try to break the gate’s padlock. Round, staring eyes roving in their mosaic skulls, they turned and brought their spears up sharply to attack.

  ‘What are they?’ Shavi asked.

  ‘Don’t bother getting into details,’ Veitch said. ‘Two categories - friend or foe. And they’re not friends.’ He drew his sword, the blue and black flames fighting for space along the blade. Shavi thought obliquely that there was more of the Blue Fire than he had seen before.

  With astonishing speed, Bearskin loaded the blunderbuss that hung from his belt and fired. Flames and a cloud of black smoke exploded from the broad barrel and the head of one of the warriors disintegrated. The body took a couple more steps before realising it was dead.

  Coughing, Bearskin wafted the smoke away. ‘Apologies, friends of the hunt. I must find myself a better gun.’ He shook his head. ‘The number of times I have been left with a few flecks of fur and a morsel of meat—’

  ‘You never learn,’ Shadow John agreed.

  Veitch hacked the head and an arm off the second warrior, but the third was causing him some difficulty. It moved rapidly, ducking beneath his attacks and jabbing with the spear. The razor-sharp obsidian blade sliced through Veitch’s clothes and drew blood.

  As Veitch lunged, the warrior whirled the spear’s blunt end against Veitch’s calf, upending him. The spear whirled again, ready to plunge into the prostrate Veitch’s chest. Shavi grabbed the warrior’s arm. As the warrior prepared to drive his wooden sword into Shavi’s face, Veitch brought his own sword up into the warrior’s gut. On his feet in an instant, Veitch rapidly made sure the warrior was dead.

  ‘What are you doing, you mad bastard?’ Veitch raged at Shavi. ‘Don’t ever get involved in a fight again. You’ll get yourself killed.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought I was saving your life,’ Shavi replied wryly.

  ‘Well, don’t. It’s my job to get hacked to pieces. It’s your job to be all smart and mystical and bloody Confucius-like.’ Taking a deep breath, Veitch cleaned his sword. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  Shavi grinned. ‘Perhaps I could get a sword.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  A loud clank echoed as the padlock dropped to the flags. Shadow John gave a flourish and swung the gate open.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Veitch peered into the interior. It was even darker than the surrounding city.

  ‘Why, the Labyrinth of the Court of Endless Horizons, of course,’ Bearskin replied. ‘It lies beneath the queen’s palace. Every year the court would have a challenge with a prize of unimaginable value for any who could navigate the Labyrinth and defeat whatever foul thing the queen had let loose down there.’

  ‘You’ve entered it?’ Veitch enquired. ‘You know your way through?’

  ‘Entered the Labyrinth?’ Bearskin exclaimed. ‘I am no fool.’

  ‘No one has ever survived the Labyrinth,’ Shadow John explained.

  ‘And now you’re trying to get us to go in there.’ Veitch glanced at Shavi. ‘Is it just me or is there a pattern to our lives?’

  ‘The scent of the Fragile Creature was rising up from the catacombs along our way. It could only be that somehow she has found her way into the Labyrinth through one of its many entrances,’ Bearskin explained.

  Shavi nodded towards
the three corpses lying next to the gate. ‘They were trying to get in there. The Enemy must be after the woman too.’

  ‘Looks like Church was right - she is important,’ Veitch noted. ‘Not that I doubted him. All right, we haven’t got a choice - in we go.’

  Shadow John shifted uneasily. ‘But no one has ever survived the Labyrinth.’

  ‘The Enemy are right behind us,’ Veitch said, ignoring him.

  ‘It’s what lies ahead that worries me,’ Bearskin said, fingering his beard. ‘Still, challenges make us stronger.’ He clapped Shadow John on the shoulder and propelled him through the gate. ‘Don’t worry, brother - I will look out for you.’

  ‘And we look out for ourselves,’ Veitch said to Shavi before following them into the cold dark.

  4