The Strategist

by Gerrard Cowan

  ‘What have you done … my brother?’ Squatstout had resumed his normal form, and was lowering himself back down onto the cliff edge. ‘Of course you are so powerful, so powerful. You have tricked me again. How funny! We will laugh about this.’

  ‘No,’ Jandell said. His voice was a thing of iron. ‘I have not tricked you. The Fallen Girl has given me strength.’ His smile was a bleak thing. The Bleak Jandell. ‘There is no more time for you. I allowed you to live, once. I came to you, for your help; you saw weakness, and sought to exploit it. You are a worthless thing.’

  Jandell grew as he spoke, a creature stretched out of all natural proportion, his edges shrouded in smoke, his eyes burning coals.

  ‘No, my brother! No!’

  ‘Yes, Squatstout. You had the chance to live again. All you could do was come to an island, and push mortals from the rocks.’

  Jandell and Drayn glided downwards, towards the cliff.

  ‘No! You don’t understand, Jandell! It wasn’t me … I was told to do it, by the Voice! You know who the Voice is, you know!’

  ‘Silence. You will not speak again.’

  As they landed on the ground, Jandell gave a little flick of his finger, and Squatstout’s mouth was sewn closed. The Autocrat grunted desperately, but Jandell did not hear him. He would not hear him.

  ‘You will tell me where Mother went after the war.’ He looked to Drayn and he smiled, before turning back to Squatstout. ‘I will look inside you, for your words are only lies.’

  An edge of the cloak snaked out, and wrapped itself around Squatstout. The Autocrat groaned, and began to mouth an endless, wordless plea. But there was no pity for him, as the cloak embraced him, burning into his skin. There was no pity for him from Jandell, or Drayn, or all the people on the cliff.

  ‘I have seen enough,’ Jandell said.

  He smiled at Squatstout, and clicked his fingers. The cloak tore itself from Squatstout and hung in the air for a moment, before the faces came. They floated away from their prison, heads with no bodies, grinning cuttings of immortal cloth.

  ‘What are you doing, my brother? Come. Please. Together, we have—’

  But his words were not enough. The faces scowled at him, and surged forward, their jaws hanging open. Memories, devouring a memory.

  As Drayn watched the death of the Autocrat, she felt afraid. Not of Jandell, or his cloak. She was afraid of herself, and the power she had given him.

  **

  The faces were sated, and the Lord Squatstout was dead, but the people still stood on the cliff. They stood on the cliff for what seemed an age, all of them together, staring into history, staring into nothing at all.

  A glint of gold in the corner of her eye seized Drayn’s attention. She turned, and saw that the Protector was standing at the very edge. He looked at Drayn through his golden mask, and nodded, before walking into the emptiness.

  She ran to the side, and looked down.

  The Protector had not fallen into the water. He was floating above it, drifting away, out across the ocean.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Brightling wondered if the flames would come when she walked through the doorway. But there was only darkness, and the Voice.

  It is you.

  ‘Yes.’

  Realising she was at the top of a staircase, she took a step downwards. She thought of the world that was gone, the world she had done more than anyone to protect. She was drifting. All of them were untethered, floating to whatever was next: a paradise or a nightmare, or something else entirely.

  You can see nothing. You will not get far.

  The Voice was right; she was lost. But then she felt the mask burning in her hand. There came a hiss in the dark.

  Why have you come here? What do you hope to achieve?

  ‘I have come to destroy you.’

  Why? You do not even know what I am.

  Brightling took another step.

  ‘You are a monster. All of you are.’ Perhaps even Jandell.

  Monsters? Not monsters, Brightling. The Machinery was built by two of us, and it could not work without me: its prisoner. How can you say ‘monster’?

  The certainties of her old world were peeling away. A new clarity was emerging.

  ‘You have made us into your playthings,’ said the one-time Tactician. ‘People died for you, so many of them, while you looked for a host. And Katrina …’

  Has become something more. She is at one with THE One. She is a glory!

  ‘She is a victim.’

  Going by some instinct, she put the mask on. Suddenly, she could see the world around her: a staircase, winding downwards in a corkscrew, illuminated by a green light that swooned drunkenly, like the bottom of a river.

  That mask is a strange thing, the Voice said after a moment. It is a thing of power. And a thing of death. The ultimate death. The death of memories.

  Brightling nodded. ‘It is your death. You, and the thing that holds Katrina. And any other member of your family who tries to exploit us again.’

  There was silence for a time.

  You should turn back.

  Brightling heard a door open, somewhere behind her.

  I allow you to leave. You are descending to your death; I offer you life.

  Brightling smiled. She had heard begging before – many times – but never from a thing so powerful as this.

  ‘I’m coming for you. And I’m coming for the Strategist, when I’m done.’

  You are a fool. Ruin is coming; nothing can stop that now.

  The mask burned against Brightling’s skin.

  ‘What are you? What is your name?’

  I am a poor creature, who did nothing but love his family. For that, I was imprisoned.

  There was a great sigh in the darkness. All of you owe me so much. All these long millennia, you have benefited from my powers. The Machinery could never have worked without me.

  Brightling leaned out a foot, but withdrew it.

  ‘Are you the Voice that spoke to Alexander Paprissi?’

  Yes. What events I unleashed! Madness in Jandell, a family destroyed, and the One placed where she belonged – with you.

  Brightling closed her eyes. Do not listen.

  She began to tremble. ‘You will die soon.’

  The Voice laughed. Turn around. Turn around, and save yourself.

  The Watcher took another step.

  ‘Not until you are destroyed, and the One is dead, and Katrina is free. I am coming for both of you.’

  Ruin is coming. You cannot destroy me.

  Brightling sucked in a breath. Ruin is coming. You cannot destroy me.

  ‘Who are you?’

  There came a laugh, old and knowing.

  Ruin is not a concept, Brightling. Ruin is alive.

  I am Ruin.

  And I am coming.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘Where are we?’

  A grey light filled the world, turning swiftly to gold and red as the sun spilled over the horizon. Canning saw that he was sitting on the branch of a mighty oak, high up in the tree. A vast forest stretched away from him in every direction, dark and silent. Far ahead there was a mountain, a silvery outcrop of rock. All of it was somehow unreal. The mountain seemed to smile …

  ‘We have taken you to a quiet place.’

  Canning snapped his head around. At the other end of the branch sat the Duet, Boy on top of Girl, her arms wrapped around him.

  ‘This is long ago,’ said Boy.

  ‘Very long ago,’ Girl agreed.

  Canning turned back to the forest. It seemed to fill half a continent. No animal sounds came from the darkness; it was only trees, and shadows.

  ‘This is a memory,’ Canning said with a nod.

  ‘Yes,’ Girl said. She untangled herself from Boy and crawled to Canning’s side, tucking herself in close to him, and laying her head on his soft shoulder. ‘This is one of our favourites.’

  She gestured at the forest.

  ‘W
e come here, when we seek solitude,’ Boy said. He sat up, and crossed his legs. He had a contemplative air that Canning had not noticed before. ‘You are the first mortal to see this beautiful memory in many, many ages.’

  Canning laughed. ‘Such an honour, before you kill me.’

  Boy’s eyes widened in horror. ‘You do us a disservice, Canning. We would never harm anyone in this place.’

  ‘We have brought you here to talk, Canning,’ Girl said, her voice muffled in Canning’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Boy, nodding vigorously. ‘We have brought you here to discuss the future, and your role in it.’

  ‘My role is finished,’ Canning said. ‘It finished with the Overland.’

  Boy waved his hand dismissively. ‘Whatever you were before is of no importance. Don’t you see?’ He seemed frustrated, unable to convey the full strength of his convictions to the captured human. ‘Don’t you see your role in the game? You are our pawn, and with you we will win!’

  Canning was no longer listening, but staring into the sky. The past seemed alive in this place. It reached out and seized him. Always a victim. Always taken to places I did not want to go. He thought of Amyllia Brightling, of the things she had done to him as she sought to impress the Machinery. He thought of the time he had spent in the cruel embrace of Operator Shirkra, where his own memories were twisted and used to torment him. He thought of the Duet, this Boy and Girl. He thought of Raxx, tricking him, throwing him into combat with Operators. He thought of her lying in a red and crumpled heap.

  He thought of the Machinery, and his anger grew. It was meant to be our saviour. It was meant to elevate us. But didn’t it really subjugate us? What manner of people were we, to prostrate ourselves before something we never even saw?

  He looked at Boy, who had leaned in close to him. Boy’s lips were moving, though Canning could no longer hear his words. He turned his head to Girl, who fell away from his shoulder. Her eyes were round and moist.

  He looked again at his surroundings, and he felt the memory before him. He could see its edges, its seams. He could feel the energy that coursed through it, an old, febrile power.

  He knew where it had been sewn together, and he knew how to tear it apart.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Boy and Girl were both in front of him now, staring at him with a blend of fascination and terror. Which one of them spoke?

  ‘I am not a plaything,’ he whispered. ‘I will no longer fill any role, unless I choose it for myself. Do you understand?’

  Boy spread his palms wide before the last Expansion Tactician of the Overland. ‘No, Canning! You don’t understand! We don’t want to hurt you!’

  ‘Not at all, no!’ cried Girl. ‘We need you, you are so important …’

  Canning closed his eyes, and all the contours of the memory became visible. He reached out with his mind, and he tugged at the edges. It came to him, then, like a piece of cloth. He twisted it in his imagination, folded it and tugged at it. He pushed with his mind, and he felt its life. He felt its power: an old thing, a magic of the ancient past.

  He looked at the Duet. He smiled at them. He closed his eyes once more, and he wrapped the memory around them.

  **

  When he opened his eyes he was back in the observatory.

  He was on the ground, directly below the platform. Arlan and Sanndro were there, hunched over Raxx’s corpse; they looked up when he appeared, eyes wide, mouths drooping open.

  ‘Arch Manipulator,’ Sanndro croaked. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’

  There was a burst of noise from above, and Darrlan appeared at the side of the platform. He sucked in a breath when he saw Canning.

  ‘By the burned throne,’ he said in a whisper, ‘what have you done?’

  Canning slowly turned his gaze from the Arch Manipulator, and looked to his side, to where Darrlan, Arlan and Sanndro were staring. For a moment, he could not believe what he was seeing. But that moment soon disappeared. He could feel his achievement. He knew it to be real.

  The Duet were suspended in a flickering blue orb, a sphere of memory; as he looked upon it, he could see images, glimpses of that ancient forest. Boy and Girl were completely still, their surprised expressions held in a moment. They reminded Canning of an insect he had once seen, frozen in amber. But these were no insects. These were the tormentors of the Remnants, two of the greatest powers in creation. He looked to his hand, and saw a flickering beam of light, flowing from his clenched fist to the pulsating orb.

  He realised, then, that he was holding the Duet. Him. He had trapped them in a memory.

  ‘What do you feel?’ the Arch Manipulator asked. The boy had descended his platform and was standing beside Canning, tapping a foot anxiously on the ground and glancing from the Duet to their gaoler.

  ‘I feel … their power,’ Canning said. ‘I feel like I could take things … knowledge, memories …’

  ‘Good, good. You should—’

  ‘There’s more,’ Canning said. ‘I feel like I can use their power as a weapon … no, not just a weapon …’ He was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘I can use them to build, or to …’ Darkness, at the corner of his eyes. ‘They are mine …’

  The darkness grew, and he fell inside it.

  **

  He awoke in bed. But this time, it was not a trick.

  The Arch Manipulator was at his side, grinning, holding a crystal jug of a rose-coloured liquid and a golden cup. He filled the cup and thrust it at Canning.

  ‘Drink, drink. You must be tired. I would be dead, I think. Ha!’

  Canning drank gratefully. He glanced around the room, and saw nothing but dull, hard metal. Definitely not a dream.

  ‘What happened?’ His voice was raspy.

  ‘You don’t remember? You held the Duet against their will, and they couldn’t escape! It was the most incredible feat I have ever seen!’

  Canning coughed, and tasted something in his mouth. Blood?

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I ended up knocking myself out.’ A wave of panic came over him. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Still in the memory you put them in,’ the Arch Manipulator beamed. ‘They won’t be free until you let them out.’

  ‘A memory cannot do that.’

  Darrlan cocked his head to the side. ‘How can you, of all people, doubt the power of a memory? Memories were made by the Absence itself; they were its greatest gift, at the beginning of life.’

  An image filled Canning’s mind: the sky at night, without stars. This was the clay of the universe, from which everything else was formed. But there was a struggle, at the heart of this thing: a battle between life and emptiness.

  ‘A memory can be a prison,’ said Darrlan. ‘A memory can be used for creation, or for knowledge. And a memory holds power – a memory holds magic, put there by the hand of the Absence itself!’ Darrlan gestured with his own hand, and for just a moment the room filled with a cold fire.

  His expression turned suddenly serious. ‘We learned to use the power of memory long ago. But no one has ever done this to the Duet, Canning. We have chipped little memories away from them. We have learned things from them. Sometimes we have kept them imprisoned for a moment. But never like this. They are at our mercy!’ He bowed his head. ‘Or rather, they are at your mercy. They are conscious, now. They ask for you constantly. They think you will help them.’ The boy’s expression darkened. ‘But they are not to be trusted. Do you understand?’

  Canning nodded, and Darrlan sighed.

  ‘We have waited for you for such a long time, you know. We have always known you would come, but I confess, I had begun to despair of ever finding you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The Arch Manipulator clapped his hands. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I will show you.’

  The boy helped Canning climb out of the bed and led him from the room, through a series of metallic corridors and walkways. Canning tried to keep track of their progress, but it was
useless. Everything in the Remnants seemed to have been laid out according to some manic plan, or no plan at all, more likely.

  They came to the end of a corridor, and the Arch Manipulator abruptly stopped.

  ‘What you see in this room will change you,’ he said. He spoke in a strange voice, far older than his years. ‘I give you this warning now. There is no turning back, but you should be prepared.’

  Canning nodded. It can’t be stranger than everything else that’s happened.

  Darrlan leaned against the wall, and it fell away before him, revealing a secret door. He grasped Canning by the hand and led him inside.

  This room was unlike anything Canning had seen in the Remnants. The floor was formed of a red carpet, and the walls were hung with heavy tapestries, depicting scenes that the former Tactician could not begin to understand: battles from the past, he believed, with white-eyed humans standing amid clouds of fire. There was a strange scent in the air, a kind of musk or perfume. Everything glowed with candlelight.

  ‘This is all that remains of the great palace in which our ancestors once lived,’ Darrlan whispered. ‘The rest of the building was destroyed in the war, long ago, but this room remains. We have made it the centre of our world, and built our existence around it. No one may enter except the Arch Manipulators, and whomever we choose to invite.’

  The boy beckoned Canning to enter, and the former Tactician walked carefully forward. He had that strange feeling again, of crossing from one threshold to another. Was this the Underland, or the Overland, or a mixture of both? Perhaps there was no difference. Perhaps he was crossing another line: one within himself. He certainly did not feel like the same man who had fled the See House, long ago. Was that long ago? I can’t tell any more.

  ‘Do you know who you are?’

  Darrlan’s words startled Canning from his thoughts. The older man turned to the boy, who was standing in the centre of the room beside a kind of plinth that had been covered with a heavy, black cloth. The boy’s expression had changed; the vitality had vanished from his eyes, and he looked at Canning with the hard gaze of a far older man.