The eyes of her girlish face see not only the physical world, but also the world of spirits and ghosts. Her nose can scent the strands of any alien sorcery on the island, and her delicate ears can hear wind in the sails of ships up to a league offshore. Yet there are very few alive who would brave the ring of storms that surrounds my remote citadel. I expect no interruptions to the weaving of this great spell.
I have posted other servitors among the towers, gates, and courtyards, all of them less visible, less intelligent, and far more dangerous. Eyeni will be their eyes and ears, sitting before the door of my spirit chamber like a marble effigy before an Emperor’s tomb. She will protect the living bodies of four souls about to leave the flesh behind. We will make a journey to a place where our physical selves cannot go. I would trust our security to no other being.
Sharadza lies on her back, the soles of her feet pointing toward the northern land of her birth. Vaazhia rests directly across from her, clawed toes aiming southward. Alua lies perpendicular to them both, as do I. Between our four pairs of feet the central mandala glows brighter as it anchors our spirits together. I have removed the Flame of Intellect from about my neck and placed its silver chain at the hub of this circle of power.
Before taking my place as the fourth spoke of the spirit wheel, I poured glyphs about the floor with a beaker of sea salt, then again with rich earth from a garden bucket. Finally, I wove strands of my own breath into lines of frost to complete the circuit. Fire, Water, Earth, and Air are now configured in their proper places. Now our bodies lie inside the circle, the last of its essential elements.
“Why can we not go directly to Udgrond?” Vaazhia had asked me. The white flame had carried us a short distance across the sea to my tiny island. “Surely this flaming sphere can carry us below?”
“Such a journey would take longer than you know,” I had explained. “And it would be far too dangerous. The fires of the deep earth belong to Udgrond himself. Alua’s flame would not burn there, at least not with its full power. There are places that have no entrances for physical beings, and we must defy all of them to reach the Maker of Mountains in his den. The great pressure and heat at the center of the world would destroy our flesh, sending our spirits back to our separate sanctums and scattering us for days, weeks, or months. And if we were to try it again, we would be caught in a loop of destruction and rebirth. The only way to approach the one we seek is through the spirit corridors, where physical dangers cannot harm us.”
“Physical?” Sharadza said. “Do you mean there are other dangers we must risk?”
“Certainly,” I told her. “The danger to our spirit-selves is limited, but ever-present. The spirit is the eternal core of our being. It can neither be created nor destroyed, although it can be drastically altered, captured, or consigned to unending torment. That is why we must go together, four spirits to represent the four elements of the living world. There is strength in numbers. We will endure the journey by combining our powers, and our ability to sway Udgrond to our cause will be that much greater.”
“I remember this name,” said Alua. Pieces of her previous existence, and the many lives that preceded it, had been returning gradually. “From the long Ages of Blood and Fire… When we were new to this world. I remember fearing him, yet I do not know why.”
“There were many who feared him,” I said. “For his wrath was great, and his fury shook the world. While his brethren walked the world playing games of creation and destruction with the young races, he tore apart continents and flooded the great chasms to create oceans. He was the wildest of the Old Breed, and his nature was never tempered by involvement with mortal beings. Some say he devoured entire worlds in his youth, long before this one came to our attention.”
“If this Udgrond is so fierce and untamed,” asked Sharadza, “why seek him at all?”
She was clever, my lovely apprentice. I was as proud of her intellect as I was annoyed by the question. “Because he has power that even Zyung will respect and fear,” said Iardu. “And he has lain so long at the world’s heart that his will must have weakened. I believe that with your help I can shape his thoughts into a pattern that will serve our goals.”
“And make him a weapon to wield against the God-King,” said Vaazhia.
“Not a weapon,” I said. “An ally. This is our last chance to increase our strength before we must face Zyung. We must not fail.”
I begin the ancient song, my voice rising to fill the locked chamber. The indigo flame leaps at the circle’s midpoint. The voices of my three companions join with mine, a swirl of chanted harmony. A four-part mantra rises from our throats as our spirits must rise from our bodies. Our short practice has served us well. The chant continues, revolving upon itself like the turning of the world-sphere. The chamber fades beneath the rising light of the mystic flame.
There is no moment of jarring release, no sudden cleaving of form and spirit. Our souls simply rise, borne on the melodies ringing from our throats. The song continues until all four of us float above our prone bodies, looking upon our circle of power. At my mental cue, our disembodied wills cause our empty forms to cease the chanting.
We hover at the invisible gateway to astral regions now, seeing the world beyond the chamber as an interlocking pattern of bright auras. Seething colors without names or physical analogues revolve about us. The veil of material existence has been torn aside. We swim freely among the vapors of creation, as fish navigate the glimmering sea.
“So beautiful…” Sharadza’s gaze lifts beyond the world to the miracle of celestial space, where planets and stars and galaxies glide and twirl, beckoning all of us into the infinite.
“No,” I tell her in the wordless voice of a spirit. “We must go down… inward… not up and outward. Time enough later to explore the wonders of the universe. We seek the heart of the earth, my friends.” I take their hands in mine, although none of us have hands in this form. It is our spirits that are linked, not our bodies. “This way…”
I lead them downward, through the solid rock of the floor, into the root of the island itself. Crystalline lights sparkle about us, the souls of stone and mineral and raw earth. We sink deeper, leaving the vast ocean and the tiny island above us. I lead them through vast caverns of quartz and shale and diamond. We descend through leagues of solid earth, four motes of light coursing through a world of lights. There is no darkness on this level of reality, only overlapping fields of intelligence, seas of atom and wave, the essence of the world’s bones.
“All matter is an illusion,” I remind them. “Nothing is truly solid. The only true reality is awareness, filtered and redefined by perception.”
Great vaults of magma open before us, and we descend through liquid fires that blind us with their heat. We move faster, flying through pockets of molten earth, layers of magnetic energy, fields of frozen potential, caverns full of eyeless, pale things that scrabble and breed in the unbroken dark. Phantoms of living fire surge from molten seas, leviathans of flame with bones of liquid metal. We dive deeper, heading toward the heart of it all, the hub of supernal gravity and ultimate pressure that is the core of the earth itself.
The hidden seat of Udgrond’s power.
The laws of time and space bend and warp this close to the core. This is why we have left our time-bound and space-bound selves far above, locked in the spirit chamber and guarded by Eyeni’s keen senses.
Our timeless journey brings us at last to a great sea of molten silver. There, nestled at the center of a molten orb large as the moon, a titan sleeps. His body has become the earth itself, and we look upon his naked spirit, curled like a babe in its mother’s womb. I call Udgrond him, but he is a genderless force of nature. That is the role he has chosen to play in the drama of this world’s ongoing existence. My companions know this instinctively as we glimmer before him, a quartet of moths buzzing about the sun.
Calling upon the strength of my allies, whose spirit-selves are linked to mine, I send a great thought spiralin
g through the molten core to awaken the Maker of Mountains. It strikes him as a ray of starlight strikes a still pool, without ripple or wave.
Somewhere far, far above, the earth trembles.
Again I call out to Udgrond, and now the stellar sea ripples.
I might say that he opens his eyes, but that would not be accurate. His awareness opens, turns away from the long dream of continents and oceans and mountains and sliding tectonic plates. Earthquakes and tremors rattle the globe along its ancient faults.
Udgrond.
I name him, and so bring myself into the focus of his celestial glow. He gathers the molten silver as a King gathers up his cloak to meet guests in his throne hall. Giving himself form now, he dwarfs our minuscule spirit-selves with his immensity. His eyes are blazing suns erupting in a molten face. He might swallow us and return to his epochal dreaming. I cannot let this happen. Currents of fear and awe radiate from my companions.
Maker of Mountains, I call out to him. Do you know your cousin?
His memory is ancient and deep. His form becomes a silver immensity, stretching itself into arms and legs and head. Here, at the earth’s blazing core, his size has no consequence. If he were to stand this tall and mighty in the world above, his very weight would crack its surface and send him plunging through its crust back to this place of compressed celestial forces.
Tiny spirits. He notices us. How long has it been since anyone has spoken to him via thought or language? He is beyond both, and my presence calls him back toward the ephemeral states of form and density. Does the world end so soon? Must I awake to enter the void once more?
No, I tell him. The world yet lives, Udgrond. But it needs your help.
His colossal bulk shifts. I do not think of the earth far above, shaking and trembling at his every twitch. I must convince him to take a less massive form so that he may leave this place and aid us.
I remember you, Iardu Starwing.
None have called me this name since the Age of Walking Gods. We were not Gods, which are wholly human inventions, but we might as well have been in that distant era.
Long have you slept here at the world’s heart, I say. And now I ask you to awaken, to join me in the raiment of flesh, and to walk the world above. Your power is needed, cousin.
There is silence in the world’s silvery core.
I wait for the significance of my plea to dawn upon Udgrond’s waking mind.
I have made the mountains and seas, he says. I am weary from it. I must rest. This is the place I have chosen. Let others walk the surface and play the games of Blood and Fire. This is not for me.
He is stubborn, as I remember. Always he walked alone. I must sway him.
You have children in the world above, I tell him. They are called Men, and they are the fruits of the earth you have molded. And there are Giants, born of the stones you cherish. And others, a thousand forms and shapes manifested from the earth’s bounty. Will you not come and meet them? Bless them with your favor?
Udgrond’s mighty eyes scintillate, memories of the cold void appearing and vanishing.
What of the Ogvaeth, the Vequanad, the mighty Muthsaka? They, too, were my children.
All gone, I say. Swept away by the winds of time. The world belongs to Men now.
The Maker of Mountains does not like this news. The lost races he remembers are less than memories to those who inhabit the world-sphere now. I realize too late that I have upset him. He curls fists the size of asteroids, and certain volcanoes erupt across the globe.
Life endures, cousin, I remind him. The depth and variety of its forms are unbounded. Yet Men are among its most brilliant creations, for they most mirror the Old Breed in thought and deed. Your long sleep has lasted long enough. The Age of Men requires your attention. I awaken you to help us in the final shaping of the world above. As your kinsman, I beg you: Rise up with us and walk the world again.
Sharadza, Vaazhia, and Alua say nothing. They are stunned mute by the majesty of Udgrond’s realm and the potency of his nature. That is all to the good. There is nothing they can say beyond what I have said. My will reaches out to the Maker of Mountains, strengthened by the wills of the three linked to me, and I shape Udgrond’s thoughts toward my own ends.
Heed my call. Aid me in this last great Shaping.
A silver leviathan hovers before us in the molten light. He feels the pull of my magic, drawing him toward a more earthly form. Yet still he towers above us, eyes gleaming with unfathomable thoughts.
Udgrond rises through the core of liquid silver, dragging us along by the hem of his will. The earth parts for him, and the great heat grows less and less, until he bursts through the rock into a vast, steaming cavern large as a kingdom. Rivers of magma criss-cross its floor, and mountain-sized columns extend from floor to ceiling, alive with jewels in all the colors of earthly splendor. There he sits upon a throne carven from a single peak, studded with diamonds large as galleons.
His silver skin still burns, dripping and smoking across the great chair. We float before him like fireflies in a realm of ashy brilliance. The heat here is still too great for any flesh to survive, yet Udgrond’s own flesh is molten metal. Our hovering spirit-selves are more comfortable in this flaming cavern than inside the magnetic singularity that was his resting place. Udgrond’s mouth opens like the maw of a volcano, and he speaks with the sound of grinding continents. It is the original language, the syllables of raw power manifested into sounds.
“You have awakened me too soon, Iardu Starwing,” he says. “This displeases me, for I have lost my dreambond with the earth. I no longer feel the winds that carve the face of crags, or the patient mountains who spew forth the fires of creation. I no longer feel the storms rushing across the face of the world, or the thunder of seas against the continents. You have separated me from the songs of the earth. My head is a hollow cavern now, filled only with fleeting shards of memory.”
In the world above you will find all of these pleasures and more, I promise him. Come see the results of your long dreaming, and help shape its final destiny.
The silver titan’s skin turns to black, gleaming with veins of scarlet where it still hasn’t cooled. His eyes shed starlight across the deep cavern.
“I will go above,” says the Maker of Mountains. “I will aid you, cousin. But my rest is not yet done. I will sit here and slumber lightly for a little while longer. When next I awake, I will ascend with you and see what the world has become.”
No! You must come now, Udgrond, I insist. Our time is short. Forces are shaping the world against us even as we speak. We cannot wait for your power. Our enemies will destroy us!
“Then I will keep you here,” says Udgrond, “where you will be safe from all enemies. None dare reach into my domain to harm you. Only sleep a little while alongside me, and all will be well.”
No!
Udgrond raises his hand. Raw earth hurtles up from the cavern floor and down from the vault-roof, encasing our spirit-selves like flies caught in amber. The titan’s eyes blink. His head of cooling silver nods upon his monolithic neck.
“Sleep now, as I do,” he says. His voice is the very sound of sorcery. “You will be safe here until I awaken.”
Already his power has fallen upon us. The rock turns to lucent crystal about us. We cannot move, for his power over us reaches far beyond the physical. His will is harder and more solid than the deepest diamond.
We are trapped in a column of quartz tall enough to span an ocean.
How long will he sleep? Sharadza asks me.
I should lie to mask my despair. But I cannot lie to her.
It could be centuries, I say. The Maker of Mountains has forgotten the urgency of time, if he ever knew it at all. To him a hundred years is the blink of an eye.
What can we do? Alua asks, her panic rising.
Free us, Iardu! demands Vaazhia. We do not need this drowsy godling.
She is right, says Sharadza. This Udgrond is beyond us. Send us back to our bodies a
nd we four will stand against Zyung. Khama will stand with us too. It will be enough!
The last of the crystal freezes into place. The Maker of Mountains sleeps again, this time as a silvery behemoth upon his mountainous throne. I should have known he would not awaken all at once and rush to serve my whims.
I never should have tried to rouse him. My desperation has betrayed us all.
Free us now, Iardu, says Alua. Her distress is an unending howl inside our shared consciousness. I hesitate to tell them the truth, but I have little choice.
I cannot, I explain. It is not this crystalline substance that holds us fast, but the naked will of Udgrond. We are caught in his dream. Only when he awakens again will we escape this prison.
There is terror now, rising to suffocate our shared essence. I cannot calm them, no matter how hard I try. Their spirit-selves might scream and wail for years, making not a sound in the vast cavern of sunken fires.
The cacophony of our thoughts does nothing to rouse Udgrond.
After a while the screaming turns to weeping.
You have doomed them all, Sharadza says. Vireon, D’zan, all our families and kingdoms. They will be lost while we linger here and slowly go mad.
There is nothing I can say that will comfort her. I do not insult her by trying.
Udgrond dreams on, and we wait, hopeless and grieving.
Eventually the great dream overtakes even our thoughts, and the silent earth swallows the last of our awareness.
11
Invasion
Storms rolled off the leaden sea into the valley, smothering the dawn with a layer of furious clouds. Dahrima spent her second day among the ruins sitting beneath the arch of a broken wall, though it gave her little protection from the driving rains and fierce winds. She kept her eyes on the gray horizon, where sparks of lightning danced above the waters. A tall wave hammered the beach, followed by a second one that sank the reedy delta beneath the bay. The angry sea rushed forward, drowning the beaches and the ruined piers, licking at the base of the shattered city walls. Later the flood receded, leaving dead fish, marooned crabs, and mounds of seaweed littering the strand.
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 19