The Blood Storm (Unwithering Realm Book 4)

by John C. Wright

  Far underfoot was black water. Overhead, one concentric ring inside another, were townships of this immensity of the Dark Tower, one above the other. The torpedo-shaped shadows of airships could be glimpsed against lights and reflections gleaming in the dome in the far heights, but none were near us.

  I said, “Say goodbye to this ugly world. We leave here and now.” I nodded at Nakasu, and he put his hand to his chest above his eye, which looked like a boy saying the pledge to the flag or a man saluting his officer, both at once.

  Nakasu laid down the flail again in a circle of ruby-ornamented gold. He began moving from one to another, adjusted carefully the rings set around the hilt.

  Penny looked surprised. No, she looked shocked. “How is it that you have a spear coil? The Dark Tower knows the location and power of all its coils!”

  I said, “I got this one from King Tut. A dead guy. And I think I saw a god in the setting sun, but this place is weird, so who knows. Do you think it will work? You make it sound like this is not part of their system.”

  She shook her head numbly. “I had no idea anyone outside the Dark Tower could make Moebius coils.”

  I said, “That cannot be true. The Professor made one; that is why we are here. They sent him the plans. I assume they send the plans to any aeon with a receiver to hear them. Lots of people must know how these are made.”

  Penny said, “I mean make a coil and not be found.”

  Something tickled at the back of my mind, but I could not bring it forward. So I said, “Do you know these Egyptian looking guys? Mummies?”

  “Their aeon is called Mizraim, their land is called Chemet.”

  “What are they like?”

  “They are an ancient race, conquered in time long past by the Tower, and theirs is the strangest of necromancies. They place the shadows of their kings in great howes large as mountains, with each obelisk and monument placed just so, and invisible energies like dragons in the earth, telluric currents, are shaped to flow as these pyramids direct. By these telluric currents, the shadows of Pharaohs long dead have the power to make lands sterile or fertile, raise a river in flood or lower it in drought, and bless or curse the location of walled cities. But each spell takes centuries to work out, and centuries to undo. There was no Moses in that world, and the power of their Pharaohs never waned, their gods were never humiliated, and no plagues broke the sorcerer-priests. Europe and Asia and eventually the Americas were conquered by the slow and unseen armies of the Ghost Pharaohs of Chemet, and now their pyramids loom in all lands.”

  “And what do they do for the Dark Tower?”

  “The same. Erect monuments. They are architects and engineers.”

  I smiled. “Do they build the Moebius coils for them, too? Is that one of the engineering things they do? I'm guessing some bright guy figured out how to make a Moebius coil whose action the Magicians cannot detect. No spear filled with troops ever flew out of this coil when Knack opened it. I only wonder how the Astrologers didn’t foresee this.”

  “Walking shadows are hard for the stars to see,” Penny said thoughtfully, “But not impossible to see. Did you ever open the gate aside from when Abanshaddi was influencing your actions? We are all safe as long as her shadow covers us.”

  “It is not a shadow, Miss Dreadful. It is a light, and the darkness comprehends it not.”

  Just at that moment, a grin of triumph split Nakasu’s belly. There came a flame of many-colored light, and the wavering gloom like a scene seen underwater. A ball of darkness had formed in the dead-center of the circle, and popped open to fill its whole circumference.

  I said to Abby, “What happens to the floor a gate sits on? Why isn’t there a bowl-shape hemisphere carved out of the rock?”

  Abby asked Nakasu, listened to his reply, turned to me and said, “The black surface is an opening into another dimension.” The word she used was manit, which also means measure or reckoning. “This is not truly a sphere, for it is not here, not in this place, the way an object occupying volume is in this place. It appears to be so, because of the limits of the eyes.”

  “That makes no sense,” I grunted.

  Foster said, “It’s magic. Deal with it.”

  I wanted to be the first guy through the gate. Partly this was because I am unkillable, and partly because a lot more people recognize Neil Armstrong’s name before they recognize Buzz Aldrin’s. It’s no fun being the second man on the moon. But Nakasu stepped in before I got the chance.

  I took a step forward toward the twilight gate, scowling in disappointment (okay, pouting, but I meant it to be a scowl) but then stopped, reluctant to leave Penny behind with Vorvolac even for a moment, even if he was bound up and blindfolded. Foster was frowning at the balcony rail, trying to keep a whole wall of his eye-defeating misty stuff between us and any unfriendly eyes from the countless windows overlooking the lake-sized cistern. That left Ossifrage and Abby and a small army of teenage girls to guard the Cold One.

  And I saw Vorvolac hunch up his shoulders against the chain looped around him, and saw his clawlike fingers opening and closing, and saw his eerie smile as he licked his lips, saw his fangs twitching erect, heard the sniffing of his enlarged nostrils. All the young women around him, all that flesh and blood, it was making him hungry. I felt a chill in my bones, or maybe it was a cold and unseen aura of power Vorvolac shed growing as his cravings grew, reaching outward.

  Loathing crawled in my throat. As suddenly as if a stick snapped in my brain and unleashed a logjam, a flow of certainty gushed into me.

  I abruptly realized that Foster was right. I saw he was right.

  If this thing, this thing that used to be human but tossed his humanity aside, if he were too dangerous for me to step away even for a moment, then he was too dangerous to live. If the Dark Tower found him—and they would, the moment Abby’s magic shadow no longer fell across him—he would be killing whomever the Astrologers commanded him to kill; and that included people as innocent as Abby and Penny, as old as Ossifrage, as dopey as Foster. But even supposing we dropped him somewhere the Dark Tower could not find him, he would still kill as whim or hunger struck him, just freelance rather than under orders.

  I just wanted someone else to make the decision for me, to take it out of my hands.

  I turned to Abby. “Abanshaddi, ask everybody why I am making this decision. I am the only one here who does not know what is going on. Not the oldest or the strongest nor do I know magic like a witch nor do I have invisibility powers like a mutant.”

  Foster said, “Hey! I am not a mutant! I am a Svartalfwicken! I do runecraft. This is Rhinegold. Like from the opera!”

  “Stolen gold,” said Penny sourly, turning toward him. “Like from the opera.”

  Foster jerked his eyes up from where he had been staring at her behind before she turned, and blinked them owlishly. “Gee. I could put some of the sacred river-gold back…? Of course, you had plenty, and my world was getting low…”

  I spread my hands. “My question is who died and left me boss? Why am I the one making this decision? Or, rather, why are you guys all listening to me rather than ordering me around?”

  Foster looked a bit surprised. “I —I dunno. You seem to know what to do.”

  “What?” I almost shouted. “Everyone here except the little girl is older than me, and she knows everything about this world and I don’t! I cannot even turn on the lights! Why is this decision mine?”

  Penny looked scornful. “There is no decision. You must kill Vorvolac. His thirst for you will haunt him and draw him to you, even across worlds. Use your cross and burn him.”

  Abby spoke up. “The Master says he awaits your decision because the Cold One is your prisoner. You are over thirteen, you carry weapons. Your magic defeated him. Yours is the Cold One’s fate.” Nakasu, of course, was not there to answer.

  I said, “I told you it was not magic.”

  Abby shook her head. “I believe you. This is magic.” She held up her copper sickle. With
it, she pointed at the crucifix I was wearing around my neck. “That! We don’t know what that is.”

  Foster raised his hand. “Buddy, the decision about the Nosferatu is yours. Turning him over to Nakasu or Ossifrage is the same as throwing him from the balcony.”

  5. Watch Tower

  Before I had a chance to move or speak, Nakasu jumped out of the black sphere with a happy look on his chest and a gush of blood drooling down his legs. There was a leather boot with a foot in it sticking out of the wide shark-mouth of his belly, and he was carrying a spear too small for him, which he lightly tossed to Ossifrage. In Nakasu’s other hand was a short, curved bronze sword like a meat cleaver, a samara. Nakasu was using the bronze sword as a toothpick, pulling bits of raw flesh and crumpled coppery rings from shattered armor from between his tusks.

  He spoke in urgent tones, blapping with his nose-hole and gargling and clicking with his belly-mouth both at once, something I had not seen him do before.

  Abby had no difficulty following the two voices from Nakasu. She said to us, “The Freedman says there is a way-station beyond, a keep without bailey or moat, and no guard in the arrival atrium at the moment. Horoscopes on the walls show that the gate will not be used again until April, which is sacred to Saturn. No one will be waiting. He has locked the doors from the inside, and saw no sign of any watch being kept. Fate is with us.”

  “Good,” I said. It was nice, for once, to have luck on our side. I wondered how long it would last.

  “Nakasu urges us to send the slaves through first, guarded by himself and the Master—” she nodded at Ossifrage “—with the rest staying as rearguard to protect the column. Abandon the water jars and instruments. There are both stores and pantries hard by the atrium, where we may supply the slaves with feed and drink.”

  I said, “Tell him I have officially manumitted all these young ladies in the name of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, also in the name of the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America and the Declaration of Independence, and by the power of this my father’s sword and grace of Heaven by whose favor I have this day conquered. Got it? Everyone treats them as free from now on. Ask him if he can redirect the Moebius gate on the far side to some further destination?”

  Abby exchanged words with Nakasu. “He says he can, but without an atlas, the combination matches would be random. Since he does not know which aeon this world is in any case, one is as good as another.”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Nakasu burped something at Abby, pointed at Vorvolac, rolled his pectoral eyes. I could hear the tone of voice, even if I could not get the words. Nakasu raised his hand to gesture me to halt when I started to step toward the whirling ball of twilight that formed the gate.

  She said, “However, the atrium floor is one large expanse of watchglass, the largest Nakasu has ever seen.”

  I said, “I don’t know what that means.”

  Foster said he could explain. But I said to Abby, “Start the girls going through! I will stay here to guard the rear while you tell me what is going on. I have the bad feeling our good fortune is about to ebb. We are standing here out in the open on a balcony with a cyclotron-powered Moebius gate ripping open a hole in the walls of the universe, and over a dozen dead harem guards in the pond, not to mention the one-legged kids Ossifrage tossed into the water. Someone is bound to see us. Can we get a move on?”

  Ossifrage and Nakasu went first to hold the atrium. Abby urged the girls into a line, telling the older ones to protect the youngsters.

  I said to Foster, “You should go through too, Foster. Use your Space Ghost inviso powers to keep everyone on that side unseen.”

  Foster said, “Not yet. I got to tell you what watchglass is.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is the reason why we have to kill your bloodsucking trophy pet over there.”

  6. Watchglass

  Foster said, “A watchglass is a Geiger-counter for magic. It is built specifically to find unclean spirits.”

  “Like me?” I said.

  “Like walking shadows,” said Abby.

  “Which is what?” I said.

  Foster answered, “Mummies, vampires, werewolves, creatures from the Black Lagoon, and every other Universal Movie Monster Abbot and Costello ever faced. You’re something different.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Highlander was from Twentieth-Century Fox.”

  Foster said, “I thought your people were more like John Carpenter’s The Thing.”

  Abby offered helpfully, “The horror-cross of the Sea-Witch is also a walking shadow.”

  Penny said, “Not to fear. I can place Wild Eyes in a hidden place inside my body to obscure her from the watchglass. It will take me about ten minutes to prepare. Nor will you, Ilya, trouble a watchglass by passing over it, since your life is inside your body, albeit more than human life. But the glass will turn black if he passes over it.” And she nodded at Vorvolac.

  “What if we float over this glass floor?” I said. “Ossifrage can…”

  “A watchglass is not pressure sensitive,” said Foster. “It is like the metal detector at school. Only spiritual.”

  I looked at him in amazement. “You have metal detectors at your schools in your world?”

  “No,” Foster said, “In my world, gypsies were not allowed to enter the schools, and the teachers are machines built by the military-industrial syndicates and animated by Svartalfar, the dark spirits of the underworld. I learned how to forge identity papers before I learned to read, in order to get a school passport.”

  “Wait. If you could not read and write, then how could you forge papers?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “So my first few forgery attempts did not go well. In any case, just now I was talking about our world, not my world. Oregon. Metal detectors were put in last year. Remember those school shootings? And before you ask, my cloak of many mists cannot fool cameras or mirrors. I can only fool things with brains. Which I guess is why you could see me.”

  “You cast a shadow in bright light,” I said. “Also, if you close one eye.”

  “I know,” he said, “I know how my own superpower works. It was a joke.”

  “It wasn’t funny,” I said.

  “Give it a week to sink in,” he said. “You’ll wake up at midnight doubled over with laughter.”

  “You know what else is not funny,” I said. “Getting old.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I mean this is my decision and no one else's. I am the judge, jury, and executioner. And I get one shot at it with no do-overs.”

  The Dreadnaught of the Air

  1. Final Verdict

  At that point, Vorvolac started giggling, guffawing, snorting. There he stood on his two legs, feet bare, his arms and skin-flaps still wound up in chain, and blindfold made out of a pillowcase still over his eyes.

  “Let’s play it smart!” Foster nocked an arrow and drew his bow. “Let’s kill him before we find out why he is laughing.”

  Penny did not look worried, but the fierce bird on her shoulder puffed up her wings and lowered her head and uttered a shrill scream which I am sure all of the people in the townships above and below us must have heard.

  I said, “Didn’t he have one leg just a minute ago?”

  It was hard to tell because they were folded up like umbrellas beneath his armpits, but the leathery wings of Vorvolac did not seem torn any more.

  Penny said in the tightly-wound voice, “He has the heart of Rahab in him. Twilight flows from the open gate. He has learned how to use the power he drank to regrow himself just in the moments while we stood here. He will learn more if more time passes.”

  I sighed. “Okay. We have to kill him after all. Let’s just dump him over the railing. It is the only reasonable way. I mean: he gave up his humanity, right? We don’t have to be humane, do we?”

  Vorvolac spoke up quickly, “Lor
d Ilya! I surrendered to you! I obeyed! I have harmed none!” And he grinned. He had teeth like a snake.

  His eyes were still covered, but there was something so sick and so sinister in that grin I could not stand it. If my life had had a soundtrack, it would have been playing the theme from Jaws or from the shower scene in Hitchcock’s Psycho by now.

  Foster did not wait for any order to shoot. He shot. There was no way he could miss at this distance. The bow had maybe a seventy-pound pull: Foster was not as tall as me, but he was stronger than most grown men. The longbow could pack a punch that would drive a shaft through a steel plate. Thwack. The glass arrow went right into the narrow chest of Vorvolac, and the arrow shaft quivered.

  Vorvolac staggered backward a step or two, but he did not fall. His silvery blood did not spurt from his chest, but rather a quicksilver ball of poisonous fluid gathered at the wound, and pulsed, and then hesitated. Then it shrank as the blood was pulled back into the wound. Vorvolac grunted and groaned and then screamed like a woman in labor.

  And the arrow slid itself out of his chest, and clattered to the marble floor, tinkling.

  Vorvolac was laughing. “What a peculiar sensation! Ilya, you whose life I shall eat next—does this always feel so odd when you do it?”

  “Oh, that is not a good sign,” I said.

  I spared a glance over my shoulder. More than half the girls were into and through the gateway. “Ladies! Run, do not walk! You can enter the sphere from all sides at once!”

  Abby translated this comment. Then she ignited and threw her sickle spinning like a fiery boomerang in a swift, flat arc straight toward Vorvolac’s head. It was a great shot, but the chain suddenly turned dull and lost all its color, and the red-hot blade went dark and cold. He ducked, and the weapon sailed over his shoulder, but the chain was dead and could not wrap around his neck.