by Greg Curtis
“We know Father?” The Captain had joined them, having satisfied himself that none of the creatures were getting up.
“What the globe does.”
“Father?”
“It's the kiss of Morphia.”
“The kiss of Morphia?” Although Briagh had already worked out what the globe did, he didn’t understand the reference. He'd never heard of it though he thought he should have given that he was a morph and she was supposed to be the Goddess or mother of his kind.
“Part legend, part myth, part faith. But according to the stories, once the Goddess walked the land as a flesh and blood woman. A woman who could take any form. So she could become a dragon or an eagle, a wolf or a fish. But in truth she was no more a woman than she was any other creature. There were no limits to her form.”
“And as she wandered the world she had affairs with men, and from those affairs her children were born. The morphs. At least so her faithful claim.”
That Briagh knew. While he didn’t follow Morphia, he knew the basic tenets of her faith. That the Goddess was both divine and their ancestor – at least spiritually. Most people knew the myths. They knew of the Mother of the morphs. They sang the songs of her bard Racha who had worshipped her with his every word. And those who were not of Morphia hated her. Her shrines were destroyed. Her followers were driven from the lands. Her children were hunted and killed.
“But she left behind more than children. She left behind lovers. Men who were forever changed by her kiss. Men who in time became her followers.”
Briagh knew that too. Sort of. There were those who were supposedly of her blood – morphs like him. And there were others who were of her will. Or so they claimed. They said that those who had been her first followers however many thousands or tens of thousands of years before, had been her lovers. But when the Father said it, it sounded as though he was saying something else. He seemed to be suggesting that they too had been transformed? Yet as far as he knew the followers of Morphia did not shift form. They had remained men. Hadn't they?
He on the other hand, might be one of her children, but he was certainly not one of her followers. Briagh doubted that many morphs were. Not in Abylon anyway. Not when being a follower might give rise to the suspicion that you were a morph, and the high chance of being killed if discovered. So when the minstrels struck up one of Racha's ancient songs he did not sing it. He did not even tap his fingers to the beat. And when somebody mentioned her name he walked away. As a result, what Briagh knew of her priests and the faith was little.
“Changed how Father?”
“Some would say maddened. Others that they were shown visions. A few that their very souls were transformed. But all agree on one vision. All said that they were shown their true form. A form that was not the one they wore as men.”
“So this globe is somehow her kiss?” Briagh still didn't understand. In fact, he was becoming less clear on things with every word the priest said. “How?”
“The ancients, or at least some of them over the thousands of years, were very concerned with faith and the gods. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of groups who sought to obtain the powers of the divine. I dare say there still are. So the ancients created great machines and wove great spells to copy them. To bestow upon themselves the power of the gods.”
“There was a sect that long ago sought to awaken the fury of Hed, the Lord of Wrath in themselves. They created amulets and enchanted them, and drank potions crafted by the finest apothecaries to grant themselves the unquestioned might of the warrior. From what little we know it resulted in several devastating wars.”
“Another secret society spent a thousand years trying to learn the magic of ultimate knowledge. They stole from the temples of the Great Sage, and created a device – a throne according to legend – which would bestow upon the one seated in it all the knowledge of the world. We don't know what happened when they finally succeeded in creating their throne. But the Fortress of Ikena in the Copperheath Ranges in which it was located was completely destroyed shortly after. They are now called the Ikena ruins.”
Briagh knew of the Ikena Ruins. Some of the members of the Arcanium had been on an expedition to explore them. What they'd discovered had been minimal. A few ancient artefacts that now sat on the shelves of the Arcanium. Some rubbings taken from the few remaining intact walls. But not much else. Moreover, finding these artefacts had come at great cost. There had been many injuries and deaths. The ruins were too close to the border of Grole and barbarian attacks had been a constant worry.
“And then there was the group who spent thousands of years trying to unlock the secret of true form. Their founder, at least according to the records we have remaining, was one of the men kissed by Morphia. A lover. And I would guess that the globe is the product of their research. A spelled or technological device designed to impart the divine power of Morphia's kiss and grant those who use it their true form.”
The priest might be right about the Globe’s original purpose, Briagh thought. Having spent the best part of three years sleeping in the Arcanium and listening to the conversations of the members of it, he knew a little about the ancients. He knew that they had been a mixed group. There had been scores of different civilisations that had risen and fallen in the land they now knew as Abylon. But most of what was known about them was myth and legend. Stories rather than histories. What else could you expect when you were dealing with people and realms that had lived and died for over ten thousand years? But he did know that at different times there had been various ancients who had tried to make the power of the gods theirs. But why Morphia's kiss? Surely there were other, more desirable divine powers?
“Their true form is a wolf?” The Captain asked.
“I doubt it. The device may not work properly. It may not have been finished. The one who used it may not know how to use it correctly. And it was filled with the blood of a morph who has three shapes, only one of which is a wolf.”
“Even if that were so,” the Captain continued, “how would the queen – the wolf mother – be able to control the wolves? That is a completely different sort of magic from shifting form.”
“Maybe she isn’t. Maybe we have done her a disservice in assuming that. When we see a man walking a dog we naturally assume that the man commands the dog. But what if instead both are merely walking together in the same direction? The leash merely a cord between them?”
“The king and his sons believed they had become dogs. Dogs and wolves are much the same and they had all been around them all their lives. But none of them commanded the dogs. The queen came from another realm and was not around dogs so much as far as I know. So maybe that made the true shape she was shown a creature she was more familiar with. A wolf. Perhaps she has merely become a member of the pack. By now she may be almost completely under the spell of the device. Even more so than her family. But still with enough fragments of her humanity remaining that she one day remembered the globe.”
“Then who controls the wolves?” Briagh asked what he thought had to follow logically.
“The one that we don't see of course.” Father Argen managed a cryptic smile. “Barachalla.”
“The royal technologist? But isn't he dead?”
Briagh was shocked. He had assumed from everything he'd been told that the technologist must be long dead. The man had apparently been old verging on ancient before the experiment had been carried out. And that had been ten years ago. Besides which, he had headed off to the islands of the south seas, never to be seen again. Had he returned, leaving no one the wiser?
And yet it made sense in a way. For a start there weren't a lot of possible suspects. In fact, there were only three. First it could be the King and Queen of Abylon. Of course he could never suggest that to Princess Elan. Second, it could have been Endorian. And finally it could have been the technologist.
Of the suspects Briagh dismissed the royal family almost immediately, given what had happened to them. Granted it coul
d have been an unexpected accident, but why would the king or the queen include their children in the experiment? That didn't seem like the sort of thing parents would do.
He was also certain that Endorian wasn't responsible, even though he had been seen running away after the experiment. Aside from the fact that he seemed a decent if not a friendly person, Endorian was no technologist and no arcanist. He had taught history. And as a morph he would never have willingly done anything that might have revealed the truth of his blood.
Barachalla on the other hand did know technology and had spent time in the Arcanium. He had also been the one to obtain the globe for the experiment. According to Endorian he had been the one to place the globe in the stand and carry out the experiment. But – and it was a big but – he had not been affected either physically or mentally after it was over. Or at least if he had been, then no one had noticed it. Could he be a member of this ancient group, trying to find his true form? And what exactly was his true form?
Briagh sighed. The more they learned it seemed the more that Briagh didn't understand. The answers given only raised more questions.
“The device is not here and these people were not part of the experiment. So how come they are being transformed?” asked Briagh.
“The globe works through blood from what we know. My thought is that the blood is being spread. At first it was slow. It affected only the royal family. But it has become like a disease. A canker. When one is bitten, the change begins, and when it is complete, the one changed can then bite and spread the disease further. Perhaps having the globe in the wolf mother's possession rather than sitting on a shelf gathering dust has somehow made the disease more powerful? Or perhaps Barachalla has done something else to it. Who knows how great his knowledge of the device is or what his intentions are?” The priest shrugged helplessly.
“I don't know. But I do know that it is only going to grow worse. And as we get closer to Abysynth there will be more and more of these wolves we will have to face. We need to hurry.”
“Agreed.” The Captain nodded. “Mount up!” He yelled at the others and was immediately obeyed.
Briagh groaned to himself but went over to mount his horse. More riding, and if what he had heard was correct, it would be hard riding. He could still barely keep himself upright in the saddle even at a slow walk. And his horse hated him. The chances were that he was going to suffer a lot more falls over the next ten days.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Abel sat on the ramparts of the Imperial Quarter walls staring down at the square, wondering what was happening. He knew he shouldn't be there. It was dangerous with the Prince's men all around. But he was curious and there was no one else up on the walls. Besides, it was dangerous everywhere in Abysynth these days. The barbarians had a habit of killing people. And what they did to the women was worse. Some days he heard the screams. When he did he tried to block his ears and prayed that he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He hated that he was so weak. That there was nothing he could do. But he was no soldier.
He still didn't understand how the barbarian Prince had managed to capture the city. How he'd brought so many soldiers in without anyone noticing. But in a strange way he was glad the Prince was here with his men. Someone had to take the battle to the wolves, and they too were everywhere. They were becoming bolder as well. The dire wolves were coming out in the open during the daylight hours. They'd never done that before. But then there had never before been any dire wolves in Abylon! Not until recently.
Every day more of the Prince's men would ride into the city as he brought his entire army south to Abysynth. And every day more of them would be killed – and of course more wolves along with them. But the deaths didn't stop anything. Every day there would be more soldiers and more wolves. More battles, more bodies and more people fleeing the city.
It never ended.
These days Abysynth was nearly empty. A city that once boasted upward of half a million people now had at most fifty thousand people remaining, His family had long since gone. He didn't know where. When the wolves had struck he had been out in the merchants’ quarter and had been unable to get back. By the time the attack was over and he'd made it back to the Escarpment, his family’s home had been destroyed and his parents and siblings had left. No one could tell him where they had gone to or if they still lived. That though turned out to be a common problem for many. The Escarpment had been nearly completely destroyed. No one knew where anyone was, or who still lived. So in one day he had been left without either a family or a home. Without work too. No parents, brothers or sisters, aunts and uncles. Nowhere to lay his head to rest at night.
Then the survivors had started leaving the city. One by one simply gathering their things together and walking off. Heading out in every direction. He could have left with them he supposed, but his crippled leg made it difficult to travel. In any event he didn’t know where he should flee to. He didn't know which direction his family had gone, assuming that they weren't still in the city – or dead.
So he'd been left behind. Eighteen years old, crippled, homeless, an orphan and with no idea what to do.
Now there were only the soldiers and the wolves left to fight out over what little remained. And of course, him. With his crippled leg there was no way he could walk however many leagues he needed to to reach safety. Not quickly or easily. And not fast enough to escape the wolves.
Fortunately, he had a little magic. Not much, and he was certainly not trained – he could never have afforded to go to school and no master had ever wanted a crippled boy from the Escarpment as an apprentice – but he could cast a simple illusion. A brick wall where there wasn't one, that he could hide behind. Or if he was out in the open he could make it seem as if he wasn’t there.
It had never been much of a gift. Not enough at least for him to find a master. In fact, he had always expected to spend the rest of his days working as a spinner in the cotton mills like his family. But ever since the wolves had attacked, it had become the most useful gift imaginable. It let him hide. Just then it was allowing him to spy on the Prince.
He didn't like the Prince. He was big, loud and violent. A true disciple of Hed, the Lord of Wrath. Probably of the Bloody God too. It also seemed he thought a lot of himself. Certainly he thought he was more important than everyone else. Most nobles did of course. But then most nobles didn't simple kill people because they thought it was fun. The Prince did. Most nobles considered that at least some laws applied to them. The Prince did not. For him the law seemed to be whatever best suited his wants and needs.
Even his men were frightened of him. Then again, they should be given that they died in their hundreds every day. But their choices were limited. Those who had tried to run away had been executed. Brutally. At least if they fought the wolves they had a chance of survival. That was, unless they were sent by the Prince down in to the sewers. None sent there had ever returned. Fortunately for his remaining soldiers the Prince had tried that only a few times. After the last group had vanished underground without a trace, the Prince had vented his anger at the gods and then stopped doing it. Instead he had decided to seal up all the sewers.
That hadn't worked either as the wolves kept breaking through. But each time they came up from the sewers they came up in fewer places and the soldiers were waiting for them. It gave the soldiers an advantage. Not enough for victory it seemed. But maybe enough for their numbers to increase faster than those of the wolves.
Now though it seemed the Prince had hit on a new plan. One that Abel still didn't understand. Warehouses filled with barrels of oil had been emptied out and now surely the best part of a thousand barrels were being emptied one by one into the sewer in the centre of the square. What sort of oil it was, Abel didn't know. Some sort of seed oil for cooking with perhaps, though it didn't really smell like it. Or maybe oil for lamps and braziers, though it didn't look quite clear enough.
What he did know was that each barrel was heavy, needing half a do
zen strong men to carry it to the sewer grate. Once there the top was cracked open and the barrel upended so the contents could be poured down into the sewers. And it wasn't only oil going down into the sewer. There were also wagon loads of fertiliser – bat dung that the farmers used on their fields every year – that were being shovelled furiously down after it. The smell was appalling. Maybe the idea was that the combination would be enough to drive the wolves to the surface? Certainly Abel didn't want to be anywhere near something that smelled that bad.
Perhaps the mix was noxious? A mixture of compounds that together became poisonous. It certainly smelled poisonous. If so it would be a simple way to kill the wolves. Still the soldiers who were pouring the mixture down the grates weren’t wearing any sort of covering over their face while they worked so he figured, that though foul, the mix probably wasn’t poisonous. And if the smell was noxious for him at the best part of a hundred yards away, it had to be a thousand times worse for those standing by the grate. Those like the Prince. Surely he wouldn't poison himself?
Fortunately he didn't have to be anywhere near it. His position on the ramparts was well above and a little upwind of where the activity was taking place. And it now looked like that after a good five or six hours, whatever the soldiers were doing was nearing completion. He realised that as the final wagon load of bat dung was pushed over to the grate while the last few barrels of oil were also being emptied. Abel had no thought as to how much oil and dung was now somewhere beneath them, slowly floating through the underground darkness, though he thought it must be a lot.