by A J Dalton
Trajan shook his head. 'No need to apologise. I see you have a dilemma of your own. It's all a bit difficult really. I can't rightly hand you over to the Wardens now, since as both you and the boy point out that would be much the same as killing you here and now. Oh well, let's just hope you die of your current wounds, and soon!'
There came a sudden, demanding knock at the door and both Trajan and the boy jumped.
'Who can that be?' Trajan asked no one in particular, worry plain in his voice. 'We haven't received the normal warning of anyone being on the road. Well, boy?'
'Man and woman!' called the boy from a peephole at the door. 'No Wardens. No weapons.'
Trajan chewed at his gums and stood in the middle of the room indecisively. The knock came again, seemingly timed to prompt him. He moved to the door and hesitated. Another knock, this one more coaxing. He reached his hand to the handle and let it linger for a second. A fourth ever so gentle knock promising no harm.
Trajan opened the door and looked at the two visitors framed in the doorway. The woman had an unearthly beauty, or least half her face did, because the other half was hideously disfigured. While one aspect of her visage made the beholder forget themselves, the other made the beholder wish they were blind. She wore enough bandages and rags that they managed to cover every part of her, even her hands.
The man constantly twitched and fidgeted. His eyes rolled in their sockets independently of each other, never coming to rest on any object. With his unkempt hair, many might have taken him for a simpleton at first glance, until they finally got a glimpse into his eyes, where a manic intelligence danced and frolicked. He was garbed in motley, as if he was some court jester.
They were a disconcerting pair, the sort that others would shy away from, not wanting to attract their attention. Indeed, Trajan took a step back from the threshold, even though he stood in his own home.
'W-what chance would bring a plague-carrier and a madman to my door?' Trajan asked quietly.
'I also tend to the sick, Trajan,' the woman said knowingly. 'I am needed here, am I not? As to what chance brought me here, well, he stands at my side.'
Trajan's mouth hung open as he looked from one to the other. Then he bowed deeply to them, something not easily done by a man of his age with obvious signs of arthritis. 'My lord, my lady, the gods watch over us and protect us from ourselves even as we transgress against them due to weakness, and ignorance being our sin!'
'Peace, Trajan. May we enter?'
'I would beg you to do so.'
The woman moved inside and placed her bandaged hand atop the old man's bald and lowered head. A grin split his face and he straightened his back with the vim and vigour of a man half his age. 'Go easy, Trajan. I can only offer balm. I can do nothing concerning the real complaint, which is your age. Only my cousin can give new life to those of her creation.'
The madman giggled, jumped over the threshold, back out into the road, back in and then leapt at rat-boy with a 'Boo!' The boy didn't even flinch and stood frowning at the madman.
'I knew you were going to do that.'
Suddenly, the madman looked terrified and turned tearful eyes towards the woman.
'What did you say?' she asked sharply.
'I knew he was going to do that, so it wasn't scary or funny,' repeated the boy.
'You can't have done! He is the god of chance and randomness. He cannot be predicted! You are lying!'
The madman began to gibber, shaking and nodding his head. 'There are no lies when it comes to chance, Malastra, none, no, no, not one. Except that now the lie is chance, for it is not chance at all. The King makes liars of us all. His is the only truth.'
Malastra became distressed, the stricken beauty of one side of her face enough to break their hearts, the tragic horror of the other half enough to make even the most hardened of individuals turn away. 'It is as we feared then. Voltar becomes ever more puissant. His control of this realm becomes greater with every passing day. The gods are becoming all but impotent here. I cannot treat any that are of Voltar's making. Wim can barely introduce the unexpected anymore. All the possible futures are beginning to converge. If we cannot change things before the convergence is reached, there will be no future and the gods will be no more. There will only be Voltar's will.'
Pale as a ghost, Lucius managed to raise his head up from his pallet, even though it cost him much. 'Is there nothing we can do?'
Malastra nodded. 'We are asking much by coming here, for it tips the balance even further out of kilter. And it may cost you your life, Lucius. But I must heal you while I can and ask Trajan to ensure you are at the palace when the Scourge comes. Lucius, you must be there for the convergence.'
'The Scourge?' Trajan asked in surprise. 'What has that old hound got to do with things? Does he live still? That's a shame, for I owe him a few favours and will now have to pay him it seems. I'd hoped to outlive him, you see. Very well, I will do as you ask, holy Malastra.'
'So we really can't eat him now?' rat-boy asked.
'No!' they all said together, except for Wim, who chose to hoot like a loon.
***
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Our wilfulness condemning us
He strode through the doors to her mind, which had been torn off their hinges. Inside was a wreckage of her hopes, dreams and thoughts. Nothing but tatters that were so far gone they could never be repaired or reconstituted. They lay strewn all around and he trod them underfoot without a care. He passed through the entrance and deeper into her house in search of an inner sanctum where the items of most value would be kept.
Somewhere in this place, she would be hiding. Crouched and trembling, she would be praying he didn't find her. She would be naked, the bruises of the psychological trauma she'd recently suffered plain to see. He licked his lips as he savoured the image. But then he suppressed the urges of his appetite. He could not risk them getting control of him right now, not when he had kingly matters to attend to.
Besides, there would be time enough later to indulge the demands of his subjects, inverted and perverse though those demands were. Of course, there was no natural order in their making demands on him, but they were weak and he understood they were capable of no better. It was their perversion that meant he had to hurt them sometimes, to show them their place. When he was ready, he would command the white sorceress from her hiding place and visit himself upon her; she would be powerless to resist the command of her maker.
Voltar moved into an arboretum that entirely contrasted with the rest of the house. This place was full of light and health, although some of the foliage was beginning to look untended. The more delicate plants clearly lacked nourishment, their fragile structures already collapsing in places. He didn't recognise all of them despite his extensive knowledge of such things. Some of the blossoms were likely unique, and now lost forever. He smiled. Yes, everyone was different, but that didn't mean everyone was intrinsically valuable. In fact, some people were definitely not worth saving.
He could hear the light splashing of water. He followed the sounds around a small group of trees, to find bubbling up from the ground amongst a small pile of rocks. It was a well-spring of sorts. He briefly contemplated pissing in it, when a placid pool not far beyond caught his eye. Bright, colourful mosses formed a rich carpet down to the pool, but he carefully ignored the decoration, refusing to be distracted and ensnared by its clever artistry. His gaze was fixed only on the perfect surface. It was a mirror, a place of self-reflection, a window into an interior world, a way of glimpsing what might otherwise remain secret, the means of discerning the truth in a pair of eyes looking back at you, the closest anyone could come to finding another just like them, the closest anyone could come to finding a love that truly completes them rather than diminishes them.
It was also a trap. He knew how easy it would be to fall into a narcissistic reverie by the side of such a pool. He could end up mesmerised and lost inside this woman's head forever if he didn't exercise adequate caution. Yet cer
tain risks would have to be taken if he was to have her secrets and define her absolutely.
'Young Strap!' Voltar commanded of the pool, refusing to dwell on the enticing scenes already chasing across the surface of the pool, scenes that were quite capable of casting a glamour over any watcher.
The water rippled and a picture of a young Guardian came into view. It was extremely lifelike, as if Young Strap were actually there just below the water's skin. But there was nothing else to be seen, nothing of where he was or who he was with.
'Through the eyes of Young Strap! Show me what he sees.'
The water changed again, but would not stop this time. It became choppy and different pictures swirled past. Many of them were fragmented as if reflected in a shattered looking glass. Some pictures never fully coalesced, and coiled through the water like dye. It was a mess.
Voltar realised he was seeing a mix of what Young Strap actually saw and what the Guardian saw in his own mind, basically, what he thought about. The King couldn't tell reasoning from reality, fact from fantasy, impression from idea or imagination, feeling from philosophy. How did the white sorceress ever manage to decipher anything from such clutter and chaos? How did the youth ever function with even the appearance of rationality with such a maelstrom in his head?
The King shook his head. He should have expected something like this given how impetuously the youth had pledged himself to the sorceress in the first place. Voltar found himself frustrated and irked, but also intrigued. How did the sorceress do it? Yes, that was it! She wouldn't be able to make any more sense of the jumble than Voltar unless she experienced the jumble as a whole by temporarily becoming Young Strap.
He was impressed. Taking over another's mind was extremely difficult, not to mention dangerous. Voltar himself only dared attempt it with those he already partially controlled through having made or remade them. But the sorceress had succeeded in taking over the mind of another, even if temporarily, based solely on a pledge of fealty made to her. Incredible. It's a good job I killed her when I did, he ruminated, or who knows what sort of devilry she might have worked on me? All it would have taken was for me to agree to some seemingly innocent request when I was overly tired or caught up in the throes of passion, and... he shuddered. A good job I killed her, a good job.
Could he do what she had done? Through her, could he take over Young Strap? Hmm. Dangerous, dangerous. What was more, his attempt would be once removed, increasing the risk to himself considerably. He might take Young Strap over, only to find the white sorceress then severed her links to the Guardian, trapping the King's mind within the Guardian's own. It would be a terrible fate. He would slowly be absorbed by the host's mind, until he lost all sense of self and effectively faded from existence. It would be like being eaten alive, except worse in a way, since his very essence and soul would be consumed as well. It would be an absolute end, without chance of rebirth or resurrection. Even Lacrimos and Shakri would be powerless to do anything. It just went to show how inadequate the gods were really.
He wouldn't try anything now, not until he defined the white sorceress absolutely. He would need to make her incapable of accessing areas of the house that offered some sort of escape or liberating fantasy. He would certainly have to close off the arboretum to her. There was a clear choice: cripple her so she could not get around or shut her up in an empty room. He knew which option would give her most personal pleasure.
The King started to turn away from the scrying pool to go in search of the nubile sorceress, when he heard a faint conversation drifting up from the psychic liquid. He strained his hearing to make it out, sure he recognised some of the voices.
'... I fear we will be killed on sight should we re-enter Dur Memnos.'
'You will have no need to fear, for not only will I be with you, but you will have an army of the dead behind you. Savantus will supply it, won't you, Savantus?'
Savantus! Voltar swore. That dog defied him still. And it sounded like Voltar's Guardians had sided with this oldest and most cunning of his enemies. He wouldn't have thought the Scourge capable of betraying the throne of Dur Memnos, but the universe was still an inconstant and fickle thing. He would have to change all that and soon. There would be a new order in which there would be no place for gods like Wim. He might allow Shakri and Lacrimos to have a place, however. After all, he would still need a bed companion and hand servant.
How was it that the Scourge had become lost to him? And what had happened to Brax? Was that the Scourge's voice he could make out now? And Balthagar was there! They conspired against him – but he had always known they would, essentially flawed and corrupt as they were. Well, they would be in for a terrible awakening. His army would be ready and waiting, and as inevitable and implacable as his own will. Savantus could bring whole nations of the dead if he wanted – they were naught but chaff and dust to Voltar. And there was a sweet and ironic inevitability to it all, since the more of the Memnosian army that was lost, the faster the ending of the old age and the coming of the new would be. They would be doing his work for him, which was only right and proper, since everyone would be nothing more than an extension of his own will in the new way of things.
It was delicious. He was affirmed and justified by every action and aspect of the universe. He was glorious and glorified. He was the omnipotent godhead. He was raised and aroused beyond all compass. 'Sorceress!' he ejaculated through the house. 'I'm coming, my love, I'm coming!'
***
A light drizzle pattered down on the freshly turned earth. The sky was dull and low, promising something worse yet to come. The air vibrated with the sort of thunder that was beneath the range of human hearing but that hurt the diaphragm. It felt like the heavens were about to collapse under their own weight, or reality was about to implode. Each of them including Saltar felt a pressure at their temples, the thin area of bone in the head that was so easily fractured, to set the brain bleeding.
It went beyond metaphor, foreshadowing and adumbration. The end of days was all but upon them.
They had burnt the other bodies, as was only wise with the dead in Accritania. But they had reserved Nostracles's body for the sort of burial adopted by followers of Shakri. As one of the anointed, there was no threat of his being subjected to an unholy resurrection.
The small, silent procession had made its way into the dusty, central gardens of the palace and prepared the priest's grave. They had interred the body directly into the earth, as was the funerary tradition with worshippers of Shakri. The body would serve to feed the life of the garden and help a new world to grow. It was a simple philosophy, but one that retained its currency in being so and succeeded in offering comfort to the bereaved.
The Scourge raised his voice in challenge to the threatening elements above, while the others kept their heads bowed at the side of the grave: 'Nostracles was one of us! He was a gentle, simple soul, and innocent in more ways than I know how to sin.'
The sky churned, the clouds boiled and a fierce wind arose to gainsay the Scourge. He began to shout.
'He sustained us while he was alive and sustains us still. We would not be who we are now if we had not known him. We would be less than we are now. He is a part of what we are now and lives on in us.
'At the end, he felt guilty of a failure of sorts. But to my mind his only failing was in being human. He insisted on feeling guilt and would not forgive himself, but perhaps it wasn't for him to forgive. If it falls to us to forgive him, then I say he is forgiven!'
The sky was split asunder by an enormous fork of lightning. The heavens and the earth clashed and warred. Rain as hard as metal smashed the Scourge across the face. A few of his words were lost, but he struggled on. The wind created a vortex the width of the central garden that laid the ornamental trees out flat and ripped flowers from the soil.
'... human as we all are. Only mortals can really understand what it is to be mortal. Therefore, only we can truly understand the failings of mortals. And only we can understand what
it means to forgive such failings. I forgive him!... Damn you!'
Young Strap was struggling to shelter something inside his cloak, while still trying to shield his eyes from the blinding, furious storm. Now, he stepped up to the head of the grave and dug a small hole there. He planted a small seedling and protected it with his body. Still crouched, he looked up at the sky with water streaming down his face.
'With this votive offering,' came the weak voice, 'I bury my friend Nostracles. He came to an end in revenging his master's death. He knew it would cost him his own life, but he did not hesitate. I was humbled by the courage of that act, just as I was humbled by so many things about Nostracles. I thank him for the example he set and will try to follow it from this day forward.'
The storm refused to abate. The seedling leaned perilously despite Young Strap's best efforts.
'I pray that my friend will rest in peace. Holy Shakri teaches us that life cannot be ended merely by mortal death. This seedling will grow from the earth in which Nostracles rests. Even should this seedling fail, another will spring up in its place. That is the will of Shakri and the order of things.'
The wind seemed to lessen, as if it heard the Guardian and now hesitated.
'I pray my friend will find in death that peace that so eluded him in life, just as quiet always follows a tempest. That is also the will of Shakri and the order of things. Any that would challenge that order will find we who stand this vigil here arrayed against them. If any would make that challenge, let them speak now.'
The wind died as quickly as it had arisen. The heavy clouds began to stream away towards the far, mountainous horizon. Young Strap adjudged it safe to stand up straight.
The Scourge nodded in approval at his young charge and suddenly clasped him to his chest. Kate smiled.
'It is done,' she said softly.
'There was a magic of sorts in your words,' Savantus said with a wonder he had not thought himself capable of.