The feeling of separation was acute; Gwenna, unlike the rest of her troupe, had undertaken the Journey, years before, proving herself before the Avatars themselves, those living embodiments of the elements and primordial source of all spirits. Ever since, the spirits had regarded her as a friend, an ally; their willingness to aid her rendering her powerful above and beyond her peers. But here, the spirits didn’t want to know, shied away. Were these sprites even the same breed as those of home? Who could tell how far they’d travelled upon passing through the Beacon Portal? Perhaps this new world had new Avatars to govern its elements. Perhaps a fresh Journey had to be undertaken.
But no; Gwenna had an inkling. These were the same spirits. The same Avatars that governed the laws of physics. It was they, the Shamans, that had changed. They were not where they should be. They had upset the flow of time. And whatever bond she had made with the elements was null and void until the damage was repaired.
“Yes,” she murmured, sadly. “I can see them. This land is fertile, strong. The spirits like it here.”
Virginie nodded, eyes full of wonder.
“What are they like? The men of L’eglise say that all spirits are malicious; leading us to damnation, craving our worship and calling us away from the one, true religion.”
Gentle laughter from those men and women that followed close behind, and Gwenna smiled, shaking her head. The things that men dreamed up to keep control of others.
“No. The spirits don’t crave worship. And why would they? The spirits of the elements have been here since the birth of the world. To them, we are but a flash of life; one bolt of lightning in the midst of the great storm of existence. Here one instant, gone the next.” She smiled, feeling the wisdom of Wrynn providing her the means to explain concepts far beyond her teaching. “Would you demand worship from a rabbit? Adoration from the chickens in your yard?”
The native girl laughed, her voice gentle, but her curiosity yet to be sated.
“But then what is their raison d’être?”
“Such is human nature,” smiled Gwenna, “to seek a reason for everything. Some things just are; there is no reason, no grand plan.” A ‘kree’ from high above, a red kite circling in search of prey. Gwenna raised her hand, pointing it out to Virginie. “See that bird? It hunts, it breeds, and, in time, it will die. There is no greater purpose for it. It is merely part of the physical world. And, just as that bird, that tree, you, me, are all part of the physical world, so the spirits are manifestations of the spiritual world. They exist in a different plane, invisible to most, but no less natural. And with no greater purpose.”
Comprehension dawned in Virginie’s hazel eyes.
“Oui. I understand, I think. But why do the spirits work with you? Why do they lend you power, if they get nothing in return? If they have no hidden agenda?”
Such curiosity, such keen eagerness to learn. A lot of the shamans behind her could do with that fire again, thought Gwenna. It was so easy to simply see the spirits as a means to an end; tools, rather than companions. Lose sight of that and you lose part of what it is to be a shaman. Words leapt unbidden to her mind.
Blunt instruments.
“But they do get something in return,” she continued to explain. “Stewardship.”
The French girl looked thoughtful, casting her mind back to the shaman’s words of before, of how the spirits flourished in the fertile land.
“So… if we look after the land, then the spirits look after us?”
Gwenna stopped for an instant, beaming. She had never heard it explained so clearly by a novice.
“Exactly. It’s not a master-slave relationship. It’s companionship. We’re all in this world together; man, beast and spirit.”
They continued to walk, relishing the warm air, the quiet of the forest, the low buzz of the bees and the whistles of birdsong.
“Une derniére question, before I wear out your patience.”
“Go on.”
Virginie looked sombre as she spoke, her mind thinking back to the lessons of childhood.
“If the world can be so idyllic, if we can all live together, man, beast and spirit, in harmony… then why are such things suppressed? Why are we told that we are damned if we parlay with the spirits of the world?”
A pause, the words hanging heavy in the air, but when the silence was broken it was not Gwenna, but Pol who spoke from behind them, his face dark, his tone low.
“Because, above all else, men crave power. They strive to have more than their fellow man. Make the whole world content, with food enough to go round and still, somewhere, somehow, one man will decide to steal from his neighbour.”
The native girl shook her head, but she knew with grim certainty the truth in his words. Gwenna echoed her thoughts.
“Fear keeps people in power, Virginie. And keeps the masses in line.”
“If only the whole world knew the truth,” the girl whispered. “If they could only see that there is nothing to fear; no lakes of burning fire; no demons in the darkness.”
Another ‘kree’ and the red kite darted from the sky to ambush its unwary lunch, Virginie gazing up to watch its stoop.
She didn’t see the darting look that passed between Gwenna and Pol at her words.
***
No effort to keep track of them from his vantage point atop the hill. Even now, the orange sky aglow with the fires of the setting sun, their torches could be seen, flickering in the distance as they wound their way through the foothills. They moved slowly, wearily; the journey had taken a toll on them. But no matter.
Their travels would soon be at an end.
The black steed beneath him stamped its feet, as though impatient in itself, as though anxious to be getting on with the work of their masters. He reached down, stroked its flank as he spoke in hushed, comforting tones.
“Soon, old friend. Soon.”
He reached within his black robes, pulling out the parchment that had been delivered only a week before. He read it again, lips moving in tune to the Latin scrawled thereon, before nodding to himself. The red-haired witch and her coven of associates, wanted for blasphemy and consorting with the devil. Accused of healing the sick by the power of spirits.
Yes, God had seen fit to place him in the right place at the right time. He replaced the parchment within his robes, his hand brushing against the silver crucifix that hung about his neck and, next to it, the silver hammer of his order, before withdrawing a small piece of blank parchment and a quill. He scribbled instructions in Latin shorthand, before reaching behind him to the small cage on the pack behind the saddle.
The pigeon cooed softly as he attached the note to its leg, though it didn’t struggle, well used to its task by now. Cupping the creature softly in both hands, he gently released it to soar heavenwards in a frenzied flap of wingbeats.
“Go, my little friend. God speed.” He looked down from its ascent, eyes staring out from within the shadow of his cowl as he regarded the distant flickers of torchlight in the steadily encroaching dusk. “I have my own tasks to see through before this night is done…”
Chapter Three:
In waves, they came. Throwing themselves through the smoke and haze, hurling themselves forwards as they came at the defences. Reckless. Relentless. No thought for their own safety. No thought for tactics, no use of cover. The air filled with the gibbering screams of the insane. Blood-flecked spittle and maddened oaths.
The smell of decaying human flesh.
The streets, fenced on either side by rearing buildings of grey stone, rusting metal, shattered glass, acted as funnels, channelling the damned into the path of fire. The mass of rushing bodies, hundreds strong, charged on, heedless of the broken window-panes beneath their feet that tore through tattered footwear and shredded flesh. Charged on, towards the rusting, twisted pile of wrecked vehicles that barred their path.
A child, no older than eight or nine; her pig-tails tied back with pink ribbon, her frilly dress torn and spattered with
gore. To her side, her school-satchel, still bedecked with pin-badges; Spongebob Squarepants, My Little Pony. The flap of the satchel hung open, the lifeless eyes of the severed head stuffed within staring out in blank and unending horror. The child screamed in pitiful rage as she sprinted through the rubble and debris that littered the street.
A pensioner, what little of his wiry hair that remained, white, his wizened face lined with extreme age. His electric scooter long since discarded, battery drained dry; fingernails torn, raw, crusted with dried blood as the senior citizen dragged himself mindlessly on, useless legs trailing behind, teeth bared in a feral grin of bloodlust.
A taller figure, amongst the rampaging crowd; black-skinned, muscular, his blue, mechanic’s overalls torn and stained with the vital fluids of his victims. He ran, barging aside with his bulk the smaller creatures in his path, eager to be the first to reach their prey. He stopped, barely twenty yards from the makeshift wall of ruined cars, the leather of his boots screeching to a halt amidst the glass and gravel that coated the once smooth pavement of the road. A prickling, static frisson in the air and he raised his right arm, staring at it in wonder and fear, as those of the gibbering horde nearest stopped their frenzied run and backed away in confusion. An audible hum, a feeling of leaden weight, of evil intention, then a roar of pain as the giant crashed to his knees, contorting in agony.
A crack, as the bones in his arm shattered, the flesh of his limbs swelling; the muscles rippling like a python, its swallowed prey still struggling for life. Power untold flowing from an unknowable source to fill this pathetic creature with dark strength. Talons erupted from lengthened fingers and as neck and shoulders inflated to balloon-esque proportions, the shaven head of the man began to disappear from sight. Eyes dark, empty, stared out, up, towards the wall of cars before the horde. In the last instant, before the head disappeared from view entirely, a flicker of life from those dark orbs, a pathetic mewling as the human soul that once reigned over that body cried out in final, desperate torment.
Kill me.
From atop the wall of cars, the weak sunlight flashed upon armour of silver. A cloud of grey cigar smoke issued out from slim nostrils as a high pitched whine of building power filled the air.
“No problem.”
An eruption of golden fire leapt out to speak release upon the crowd of the damned. The swollen giant, yet half transformed, evaporated in blissful peace as the fire consumed him in its embrace. Similar flashes roared out from either side of the figure atop the wall, reaching out to clear the crowd from the road, like weeds before a brush-cutter. Like darkness before the light.
The pig-tailed girl, the pensioner, the mailman, the mother, the care-worker, the bank-clerk, the shop assistant; all puppets of a dark power. All now gone, obliterated, blasted into peaceful and welcome oblivion before the wave of golden fire.
Finally, after long moments, the smoke began to clear, the air filled no longer with the cries of madness and the howling of the damned; only the popping sizzle of scorched fat and the crackle of charred and brittle bone disturbing the stillness of the air. The road cleared of movement, still and macabre; a slaughterhouse of the innocent and the lost.
The man took another drag on the cigar clenched between his teeth as he surveyed the carnage before him, before hefting his weapon to his shoulder and turning, clambering down the wall of cars to the road behind the defences. The others followed, grunting with the effort, their movements encumbered by the shining silver plate and chain mail they wore, so out of place amidst the concrete and glass of their surroundings.
A fellow warrior approached him, face grim from the slaughter before. There was no pleasure to be had in the destruction of this enemy; innocents, trapped in the flesh puppets of their own bodies. No pleasure in ending them.
No pleasure in anything, here.
“What now, sire?”
Arbistrath threw his cigar to the ground, grinding it beneath a steel boot.
“We go home, Lawrence. Take these supplies back. Get some rest.” He looked up to the tall buildings that reared dizzyingly on all sides. “It’ll be dark soon…”
***
The creaking rumble of the descending gates came to a halt and Marlyn flicked the switch to turn off the motors.
“And that’s the last of them.” He nodded to himself as he regarded the monitors before them, seeing the entrances to the complex all sealed off. “Should see us right until morning.”
A hand on his shoulder, the knuckles raw from wearing steel gauntlets too often.
“Good.” Arbistrath’s face was sombre; no change there. “How long will this new oil we found last us?”
“Diesel.” The word leapt unbidden to Marlyn’s tongue as words so often did of late. “And it’ll last us a week, maybe ten days.”
A nod from Arbistrath.
“That’s good. Gives the men some time to rest.”
The young lord paused for a few moments, a vacant expression on his face. Marlyn watched him, noting how tired he looked, the dark circles beneath his eyes, before Arbistrath shuddered, jarring himself to attention again.
“Well… keep up the good work, lad. Don’t stay awake too long.” He nodded towards the bright security screens. “And give your eyes a break – those things can’t be good for them.”
Marlyn laughed.
“Will do, sire. Night.”
Another weary nod from his lord, before he turned and strode from the small room.
Marlyn turned his attention back to the screens in front of him, rubbing his eyes, screwing them shut and opening them again to try to relieve the ache.
“I think he’s right, y’know,” he murmured to himself.
He frowned, for a second, as he gazed about the bank of controls, feeling a slight mental tug towards one particular control. He reached out, twisting the small knob, the glaring brightness of the screens diminishing as he did.
“Hmm.”
It had been that way ever since that fateful night at the foot of the Beacon; since feeling the seeping, golden touch of his newly empowered cannon, his mind had burst into bright and vibrant life, his curiosity alight, his intuition enhanced. Perhaps back home, back in Tulador, he would have died of boredom, for even now he could recall the primitive, backwards state of the technology. Wood, steel, pulleys and levers. So simple. So… easy.
But here? Here in this strange, new world the technology that surrounded them at every turn amazed and intrigued him. These screens before him – how did they work? How could he see things from so far away? It wasn’t acting like a telescope, no; there were no lenses. Just metal wires wrapped in…?
Plastic: a malleable, organic polymer useful for insulating against electric current.
He shook his head, staggered for an instant, as he always was whenever the answers sprung from nowhere. He didn’t understand how all these things worked; the monitors, the gates. No. But his intuition allowed him to use them well enough.
Enough to allow them to survive. Thus far, at least.
This place they had found themselves holed up in. This – he glanced at the words in the bottom corners of the screens – ‘Shopping Centre,’ was rammed full of such technologies. He yearned to pull the devices apart, to see what made them work, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to understand, even if he did. The half-dismantled gadget atop his workstation was testament to that. ‘Toaster’ the label had said. What did it do? And how did it work? That was the frustrating thing; knowing just enough to be aware of your own ignorance. Maddening.
Perhaps, one day, when he returned to find them. To bring them home, then maybe he would find some answers.
He closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder at the misery evoked by the thought. How long had they been here now? A month? A year? It was hard to tell. Either way, his faith in the promise of their lord grew weaker as each day passed. For was it not clear? Was it not evident by the hordes of the damned that roamed the streets outside? The only thing that separated the l
ost souls without from the Clansmen of Merethia was the lack of trailing, waxed moustache.
This world had already fallen. Their mission, their reason for coming here, failed before it had even begun.
***
A scratching. A clawing. Quiet, subtle, like the rasping of tiny nails on a wall in a far corner of a house. Lawrence opened his eyes and, just like that, the noise was gone. Had he imagined it? He listened, straining in the gloom of the restaurant booth to hear for it again, but all that reached his ears were the sounds of low, heavy breathing; the fitful moans of other homesick warriors at slumber, minds plagued at night by the horrors that haunted their waking days.
What had Lawrence expected, all that time ago, when they had stood, proud and brave, before the Portal atop the Beacon? To walk out the other side into fields of green? Shining towers of glass and gold? Pretty maidens charging forth with garlands of flowers to drape about their necks? Perhaps. Perhaps that was what he’d thought they’d deserved. Hell, he’d have been surprised if they hadn’t all felt the same after all they’d been through. A nightmare. Horrors beyond the wildest imagination. Even now, who knew how long after, he could still hear the screeching metallic cries of the Centaurs; still smell the sour tang of sulphur.
But back then, at least, back on the battlefields around Merethia, they’d had a purpose. They’d had a goal. And of course, they’d had him. The blinding light. The warming glow, the presence, that pervaded all about, filling them with hope, with strength, hearts a-flutter with pride. Unconsciously, his hand found the sturdy, reassuring grip of his cannon, the metal never tarnishing, always warm, its surface faintly aglow with its golden sheen of power.
Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 4