by D. P. Prior
“You have dragons here?” Shader said.
“If we still do,” Rugbeard said, “they must be wary of crossing the Farfalls. I’ve heard no tale of dragons in Malkuth, and don’t expect to, neither. But my point in mentioning the Dwarf Lords,”—he looked sharply at Nameless—“is that legends ain’t the same as lies. Your brother and I agreed on that, to a degree, only we disagreed on which parts of the Annals were myth and which were history.”
“Are we there yet?” Albert called from inside. “I need to micturate.”
“There’s a bucket in the back,” Rugbeard called over his shoulder. “Either that, or tie a knot in it. Won’t be long now.
“Anyways,” he said, scanning the way ahead and giving the reins a gentle flick, “the Lords of Arnoch kept watch over the sea, but they also patrolled the skies using baskets hung from enormous balloons. They was filled with gas that was lighter than air, but they wasn’t exactly safe. A single lick o’ flame, and that gas’d go up—boom!
“One day, a dragon was razing the fishing villages along the coast, but then he gets all purposeful and comes at Arnoch itself. Flames charred the city walls, hundreds was killed, and just when all hope seemed lost, and the city was making ready to sink beneath the waves, as it was designed to do in the worst of all perils, Lord Kennick Barg asked permission of the king to go out after the beast on his own. The king agreed, seeing as there was nothing to lose, and brave Lord Kennick goes up in a balloon, hollering insults at the dragon for all he was worth. The wyrm grew mightily pissed. It soared right at the balloon and unleashed a searing torrent of flame, and kabooooom! No more dragon. No more Lord Kennick, neither.”
Rugbeard turned his gaze on Nameless. “That’s our model, what we were supposed to be like. Don’t believe all this Gandaw shite. Where’s the proof? In the Annals? Pah, you’ve seen just how much they can lie. In the Council, bunch of prevaricating old gits that they are? Too ready to despair, ever since Maldark, I say. Too ready to see everything as doom and gloom, and themselves as no more than botched experiments. We’re better than that, and someone needs to ram an axe-haft up the Council’s asses to let them know.”
They rattled along in relative silence, save for the skirling wind. Above them, both suns flared briefly then began to flicker like guttering candles. In the far distance, what looked like a third sun—black as the Void—sent dark fractures through the surrounding sky. Nameless couldn’t be sure, but each time he looked, it seemed the black sun had grown larger.
His back ached from sitting too long, and he desperately needed to stretch his legs, so he gave up his seat, and squeezed past Shader to get to the wagon bed.
Shadrak looked up as Nameless seated himself on the bench beside him. He was meticulously cleaning each and every one of the daggers and razor stars in his baldrics. When he’d finished that, he unholstered his pistol, took a rectangular segment out of the handle, shook it, and then replaced it with another from a belt pouch. He looked down the barrel, blew dust from its end, spun it on his finger, and re-holstered it. Even then, he didn’t stop checking his pockets and pouches.
On the opposite bench, Albert looked completely out of place in his pin-striped jacket and britches. Sweat beaded on his bald pate, and at one point he reached into his breast pocket for something that was no longer there, rolled his eyes, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. After that, he sat staring down at his cheese-cutter, the wire held taut between his hands.
“How long do they say we’ve got?” Albert said.
“They don’t, laddie, but judging by the look of things out there, I’d say the Unweaving’s well underway. Could be minutes, could be hours. Who can say?”
“Not long enough for you to find out what cold cuts Gandaw likes and lace them with sausage poison,” Shadrak said.
Albert chuckled, but his eyes remained hard, and somewhat feverish. He was scared, that much was clear. As they all should be. And it wasn’t like any of them had much say in the matter. Either they stopped Gandaw, or they perished, along with everything that existed. If it had been any other way, Nameless thought it likely Albert wouldn’t have seen it as his problem.
The wagon bumped and clattered along the shoreline for an hour or so, and then Rugbeard called Nameless back up front. He pointed out a barren hill set back a couple of hundred yards from the lake.
“There it is. That’s where we’re heading.”
Nameless could see a range of hills rolling away beyond it.
“That’s Arx Gravis back there,” Rugbeard said. He steered a course for the hill. “But this is the secret I was telling you about.”
As they drew nearer, Nameless could see the hill was made of packed earth, as if it had been piled there during some mammoth dig. Holes pocked its surface, many of them big enough to drive the wagon through. They pulled up close, and he climbed down. Shader did the same.
Albert was straight out the back and rushed into the cover of some scrub. Shadrak leapt lithely from the wagon, fingers still checking his pouches and weapons.
Rugbeard busied himself hammering an iron spike into the ground and tethering the horse to it.
“Is that—?” Shadrak started.
“An ant hill,” Nameless said. “So, it wasn’t just the drink talking, laddie.”
Rugbeard chuckled as he slung his mallet into the back of the wagon and took down a hooded lantern from inside. “Like I said, there’s an ocean of difference between legends and lies.”
“So, those are tunnels,” Shader said. “Big ants.”
“Giant,” Rugbeard said. “More of Gandaw’s creatures. It’s said they had no queen, just a controller, part ant, part human. They say they never aged, neither, not the ants, nor the Ant-Man.”
“And you want us to go in there?” Albert said, traipsing back over, fastening his britches.
“Hill’s deserted nowadays,” Rugbeard said. “Last I heard, the Ant-Man and his pets was out Malfen way. Probably trying to cross the Farfalls to be with all the other monsters.”
A muffled boom rolled across the sky, and the ground shook beneath their feet. Dirt cascaded down the side of the ant-hill.
A dark shape appeared in one of the holes, then slipped out of sight.
Nameless was already moving toward it.
“Was that an ant?” Albert said.
“It was standing upright,” Shader said.
Nameless scrabbled up a bank of dirt until he reached the opening. Shader and Albert struggled up behind him.
There were footprints leading away down the tunnel, and a smudge of similar markings around the entrance. But they weren’t ordinary footprints; they were long and slender, the impressions left by the toes splayed wide.
“Looks like it was hanging round the entrance for some time,” Shadrak said, coming up alongside the others. “Waiting.” He exchanged a look with Nameless. His face tightened with concern.
“You think it’s the Ant-Man?” Albert asked.
Rugbeard was next up, shaking his head, eyes wide and bulging. “But they was in Malfen. That’s what folk say. Surely—”
“That weren’t no ant, and it weren’t no shogging ant-man, neither,” Shadrak said, drawing his Thundershot and slipping into the tunnel. “Wait for me here.”
To the south, the black sun was wobbling, expanding, and its fractures were thrashing about like tentacles. And then, as if the dreaming god of Aethir blinked, everything was plunged into darkness.
Was that it? Were they too late?
The next instant, the darkness lifted, but there was no sunlight now, only a crepuscular gray that turned the surrounding landscape dull and lifeless.
Shadrak came back down the tunnel. “Gone,” he said. “Scut sure does move quick.”
“You know what it was?” Shader asked.
“Thing that attacked me in the city,” Shadrak said. “Certain of it.” He unfastened his cloak and slung it down the hill, then took the concealer cloak from his knapsack and put it on.
“My advice,” Shadrak said, “is stay alert. Anything moves in there, hit first, worry about what it was later.”
Rugbeard struck flint to steel and got his lantern burning.
“You said it had a…” Albert pointed at Shadrak’s Thundershot.
“Gun? Yeah, it did, and it’s shogging fast.”
That was a troubling thought. Nameless had only caught a glimpse of the creature. If it had a gun, it could have shot him without him even seeing. That begged the question, why hadn’t it done so? He said as much to Shadrak.
“It’s what I’d have done in its situation. Keep back, observe, and strike only when you’re sure of your target’s strengths and weaknesses.”
“Must have given it something to think about,” Nameless said, flexing his biceps.
“Yeah, right,” Shadrak said.
“Come on.” Nameless sauntered into the tunnel. “No point worrying about things we can’t control.”
Rugbeard ran up alongside him, holding his lantern aloft and sending long shadows across the floor and walls.
They moved through a maze of winding tunnels bored out of the earth. Shadrak was almost invisible in the concealer cloak, no more than a shifting blur beside the tunnel wall. Albert brought up the rear, fiddling nervously with his cheese-cutter.
At one point, Shadrak took the lantern from Rugbeard and scanned the ground. “Tracks have gone,” he said, raising the light to inspect the ceiling and walls. Finally, he handed it back to Rugbeard. He muttered something to himself and pulled the concealer cloak tight, merging with the tunnel once more.
Rugbeard led them to a steep decline, which they had to descend on their backsides. They emerged into a mine tunnel. It was lit by a soft, greenish glow that emanated from veins in the otherwise black scarolite. Struts and supports lined the walls and ceiling. Iron rails with scarolite sleepers threaded down the center of the tunnel.
Rugbeard led the way to an abandoned mine-train. The undercarriage was of rusted iron, but the main body was a sleek silver capsule, caked in rock dust.
Rugbeard wiped a patch of grime away with his hand, revealing a row of five buttons. He pressed each in turn, and the side of the carriage slid open to admit them.
There were three rows of seats inside, each upholstered with padded leather, and at the front was an array of levers and knobs. Rugbeard toggled a switch, and a panel lit up. The smell of ozone wafted through the tunnel, accompanied by a low, pulsating hum.
“Hop in,” Rugbeard said with evident relish. “I ain’t ridden this route for donkey’s years.”
WHERE TIME HAS NO MEANING
“Keep your guard up!” Aristodeus yelled.
Rhiannon couldn’t. Her arms were leaden, the black sword a ponderous weight. “Can’t you at least open the shogging door? It’s bloody stifling in here.”
The whitewashed walls of the philosopher’s tower seemed to be closing in on her, and the ceiling threatened to crush her to the floor. There was no room for maneuver, and that meant the swordplay was relentless; no retreat, just stand your ground, parry, thrust, block, slice; either that, or receive a sharp slap with the flat of a blade.
“We’ve been going at it for hours,” she said. “Shouldn’t the world have ended by now? What’s the point of all this, if we don’t even take a pop at Gandaw?”
Aristodeus sighed and lowered his sword. “As I’ve said a thousand times, it would not be wise to leave the tower, nor open the door—even a crack.”
“Why? What’s out there? Where the shog—?”
He held up a hand to cut her off. “And as for the Unweaving, consider it on hold. It’s more complex than that, but let’s just say time has no meaning here. We could train for days, years even, and still emerge before the end of all things. Call it a gift. Call it a blessing, if you like. Call it a responsibility.”
He lunged at her, and she batted his blade away with ease.
“Good,” Aristodeus said. “It’s paying off. Still a poor substitute for Shader, though. If you’re to have any chance, we’ll need to go in together. You must be fast, very fast, and you’ll need the element of surprise. Without Shader’s sword, our chances are virtually nil, but I refuse to sit back and do nothing. If Gandaw doesn’t see us coming, and if that evil-looking sword of yours can penetrate his exoskeleton, who knows, maybe we won’t need to deal with Eingana.”
“So, what, you just magic us in and hope he’s looking the other way?”
Aristodeus shook his head and adopted a defensive stance. “I can’t get us through the scarolite. The mountain’s shielded against anything I can muster.”
“What, then?”
Aristodeus looked up at the ceiling and sucked in his top lip. “I fought Gandaw once before, and he used Eingana’s power to send me here. I have a theory—a desperate one, nonetheless—I might be able make the return trip, follow the fault-line of his own making. This tower is, shall we say, a construct of my will. It’s all that wards us from what’s outside. It is not, however, altogether stationary. It can be relocated, moved, propelled, even. You’ve already seen what I can accomplish with my will; how else would I have brought you here? No, just wait and see. I think I can get us to Sektis Gandaw. Now, fight!”
He launched a blistering series of attacks. Rhiannon parried frantically, until he backed her up against the door. He pressed in close, the whiskers of his beard scratching her face. His breath stank of garlic and wine, same as before, when he’d… when she’d drunk too much champagne. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he saw it coming.
“You lack strength, speed, and stamina. We’ll work on all three. But first, if you’ve had enough for today—and don’t forget, we’ll be doing this day in, day out, until you’re ready, no matter how long it takes—there’s something we must do, sober, this time.”
He pushed himself away from her.
Rhiannon screamed and swung the black sword with all her might. Aristodeus was quicker, though, and he grabbed her wrist and stayed the blow.
“Look at me. Look at my eyes. Are you telling me it was just the champagne last time, or do you see something there, something familiar?”
She was riveted to the ice-blue of his eyes, the way they darkened at the edges like a gathering storm. How could she have not noticed before? Had it been the drink? “Shader,” she said. “You have Shader’s eyes.”
“Oh, it’s more than just the eyes, my dear. I am him. Or rather, he is me.”
And then he explained. Explained how he had failed against Gandaw before. Maldark might have prevented the Unweaving, but Aristodeus had been plunged into the Abyss when the Technocrat had opened up a chasm in the floor of his mountain chamber using the might of Eingana. The Supernal power had been too much for him, and it would be again.
“I have outwitted the Demiurgos,” Aristodeus said, gesturing at the walls of the tower. “Not only did I create this with my own mind, but I discovered a way to travel beyond its confines, albeit for limited periods. I can visit any place, past or present, and I have done so. I have started to redress the balance in our favor.”
“What did you do?” Rhiannon asked. “To Shader?”
Aristodeus smirked. “Not to Shader. To me. I went back to the time I was born, stole the baby that was destined to be me, and gave it to foster parents in Maranore, on the fringes of the Nousian Empire. I picked them myself: Jarl and Gralia Shader: a warrior and a woman of such piety they would have made her a luminary, if she hadn’t lived in such obscurity.”
Rhiannon’s head was a war of conflicting emotions. Aristodeus had taken himself as a baby, and had himself raised as another person?
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe it. Shader is you?”
“He must never know,” Aristodeus said with a flash of warning in his eyes. “And besides, how else do you think his voice awakened Nameless from the artificial slumber I had placed him in? I don’t expect you to understand, Rhiannon, but I do expect you to recognize the truth when it is revealed to y
ou.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you do it?”
“Because to face the Statue of Eingana, I needed to be able to wield the Sword of the Archon. I tried once before, but the sword rejected me. I lacked the requisite holiness.” He said the last with a sneer.
“That makes no sense. Why not someone else? It didn’t have to be you that went up against Gandaw this time.”
“Oh, but it did. It’s not just swordsmanship that will win the day against Gandaw; and not just the might of a Supernal weapon, either. If takes brains, and an intuitive grasp of patterns that not everyone can see. No, my dear, it had to be me. All the child lacked was education and training, and I provided him with both from the age of seven onwards.”
“But he’s not you, is he?” Rhiannon said. “He led a different life. There were different people, different influences.”
Aristodeus puffed out his cheeks and sighed. “I see that now, which is why I think it won’t be enough. Shader won’t be enough. That’s where Nameless comes in, and to be doubly sure, that’s why I need you.”
THE WAY IN
Nameless sat next to Rugbeard at the front of the train. His ears popped as they raced along an unending tunnel. Green blurs streaked past the windows, but other than that, the walls outside were black as pitch, broken only by evenly-spaced gray struts.
Rugbeard was wittering on, but Nameless wasn’t really listening. The train unnerved him. He was re-living the time he had ridden in such a thing before, to the headframe above the mines. He remembered Kal being there—Kaldwyn Gray. They had taken the cage down to the sump pit at the bottom. Ming and Muckman had been lost. A golem had come out of the walls at them. There was screaming, then blood. Red Cloaks and Krypteia stood against the monster, and it tore them apart. But Nameless had somehow prevailed. Why him and no one else? What was so special about him?
But that was all the interred memories his mind would give up at this time. His awareness was squeezed to a point by paws of darkness, and then it burst like pus back into the moment.