They parted for her, but tried to draw her to the side or to cloud her vision with their forms. She hurled them aside or simply walked through them, peering through some sort of thick monocle held firmly in her left eye.
Antonine looked closer and saw that it was part of a compass, and that she looked through its magnifying lens. It was a fetish, judging from the pictograms carved around it.
Confused, he turned to look over his shoulder, to the source of the dim light by which he viewed Zhyzhak’s march, to the Phoenix totem hovering there.
“What is this? ” he asked.
“The doom of the world, ” it said.
“How can this be? " Antonine said, his eyes wide, brow furrowed. “I saw the Temple Obscura and the Black Spiral Labyrinth. She dances it, and yet overpowers its guardians. She marches heedless of its twists and whorls, making her own path to its center. How can this be? ” “She, like you, is guided by a star. ”
Antonine felt another lurch of fear but ignored it, as his long years of training had taught. “The Red Star. Her fetish allows her to navigate by it. Brilliant. ” “Where one goes, another can follow. ”
The rush of revelation Antonine felt upon hearing those words was broken by the pain of his body hitting the ground. He blinked and opened his eyes, and saw once more the night sky of China. Persimmon Cloud rushed over, a look of concern on his face. Antonine sat up and motioned that he was all right.
Persimmon Cloud looked at him curiously, waiting for him to speak.
“Phoenix came to me, ” Antonine said, standing up. “He gave me a vision. A chance for us to overcome a terrible wrong. ”
“The Phoenix is not known for forthright answers, ” Persimmon Cloud said, crossing his hands over his belly. “Are you sure you saw this correctly? ”
"I think so. Would you accompany me below, to speak with the other monks? I want to tell you what I saw. Perhaps your combined wisdom can reveal flaws in my interpretation. ”
“Of course, ” the abbot said, leading the way down the long stairway that wrapped around the mountain toward the monastery quarters below.
• • •
Antonine sat on a reed mat, watching the six gathered monks. He had just told them his vision; now he gave them his interpretation.
“Zhyzhak has discovered a means to thread the labyrinth, to surpass the Ninth Circle and reach the heart. As our tribe teaches, the Weaver’s web entraps the Wyrm, driving it mad with rage. But where is this web? It is all around us, but like all ideas, it is given expression in certain forms. The one form that is most representative is terrible and maddening to behold, for it is the Black Spiral Labyrinth, the single thread that leads from Malfeas straight to the Weaver’s victim, the Wyrm itself.
“But none can trace its convolutions without losing all reason. The Black Spiral Dancers worship the Wyrm s corruption and, in an attempt to emulate it, they dance the Labyrinth, losing their minds along the way. Only those truly strong of will can overcome the tests confronted with each step on that path, tests administered by banes and other high officials of the Wyrm’s cultic hierarchy.
“This hierarchy is none other than the Wyrm’s own need made manifest. The only way to reach it, to free it from its hounds, is to pass beyond all reason, for even a bare spark of logic has something of the Weaver in it, and hence cannot overcome the Weaver’s illusory web. Only something unraveled from that web can escape it and reach its center, where the Wyrm thrashes.
“This is what the Wyrm seeks, what it wants above all else. This is why the Black Spiral Dancers seek madness: Their master begs it of them, although they do not suspect the true reasons for it. They believe they will be rewarded with power, but their true purpose is to pass the test of the final circle, the Ninth Circle, and so reach their master’s very presence. Those few who have taken this test of the final circle have failed. ”
Persimmon Cloud spoke. “How is this true? Is it not said that the dread general who rules in Malfeas gained his rank by passing that final test? ”
“Indeed, so it is believed by the Wyrm’s faithful, perhaps even by that general himself. But in truth, he failed. His punishment was worldly power, condemned to struggle to maintain it for endless years. The Black Spiral Dancers do not see that what they most desire is the reward for failure. ”
“And what if he had succeeded? What then? ”
“I believe he would have encountered the Wyrm in its true presence. He would have been completely mad, without any reason, acting on instinct alone. And what is a Garou’s deepest instinct? ”
A young monk raised his head, a look of sorrow on his face. “Rage. ”
“Indeed. But then his rage would have unleashed an assault on the bonds of the Wyrm, on the twisted cocoon. Pure, unadulterated madness versus calcified logic. Perhaps... perhaps the Wyrm would have been freed at last. ”
“And so freed, " Persimmon Cloud said, “it would have destroyed the world. "
“It would finally have brought the corrupt world age to an end, to begin a new kalpa, a new world of purity. The Wyrm is the Great Devourer, eating not only flesh but ideas. In times of balance, its eating transformed stagnant energy into the rich manure from which new life and ideas could spring. A macrocosmic reflection of each living thing’s digestive cycle, the most intimate form of communion—eating another being and returning his raw substance to the world.
“In its imbalanced state—the only state we have ever known in this lifetime—it hungers endlessly and yet is denied its feast. Old forms remain, undevoured, rotting the universe. Its minions devour things in mimicry of the Wyrm. But they pervert that act, birthing only new horrors. Horrors begetting horrors. ”
The monks nodded, understanding.
Persimmon Cloud sighed. “Do you believe Zhyzhak will succeed where Number Two failed? ”
Antonine was silent for a while, and then spoke. “Yes... and no. Nothing good can come from her victory. If she is not beyond reason when she passes the Ninth Circle, she will free the Wyrm only to turn it toward her own, ego-driven ends. She will not serve the greater good of the universe, but will serve herself, driving the corrupt age into an endless abyss from which no new world can arise. ”
The monks were quiet for a time, pondering what had been said. Finally, Persimmon Cloud spoke. “What can we do? What is the meaning of the Phoenix’s last words to you? ”
“Where one goes, another can follow, ” Antonine said. “I believe there is a chance... an opportunity for me to follow her trail. She does not confront the circles in the traditional manner and leaves a broken road behind her. If I can reach that road, I can follow her past the final circle, to the heart of the web. ”
“But it is madness to dance the Labyrinth. You will lose all sense of your way and forget your purpose. If you survive, you will become a terrible general of the Wyrm and a great foe to us. ”
“There is that risk. But if Zhyzhak succeeds unopposed? Is my risk any greater than the risk of inaction? ” Persimmon Cloud sighed. “Beset by poor choices in all directions. ”
“I think there is a chance that, once she beats down a door into the Wynn’s heart, I can slip through that door and turn her march into our victory. She is strong and powerful, a cunning foe, but she will be blind to the truth of the Wyrm, seeing it as an entity to serve. She does not perceive it as a caged animal, but a demonic overlord. She will not think to free it, and that will give me a chance to break its bonds before she realizes my goal. ”
“Very risky. And even if you succeed, the world will end. You assume that it is doomed either way. ”
“There is, of course, a chance that I’m wrong. I will have to be open to that possibility, to perceive all that I see as it is, and not act from ideology. If, after considering the evidence of my travels, it appears that my freeing the Wyrm is not the right answer, then I shall instead concentrate all my energies on destroying Zhyzhak. ”
“But what if your doubt at the last minute is part of its trap? Perha
ps a fixed ideology is required as the only armor against its aura of despair. Our tribe’s virtue of questioning may prove to be a weakness before such a presence. Either way, it means your death. You cannot return from such a journey beyond all boundaries of the real and unreal. "
"I accept that. There is no other choice. ”
Persimmon Cloud nodded. “Then I have something to give you, to prevent a long and deadly journey to Malfeas. "
Antonine cocked one eyebrow in curiosity, but said nothing as the abbot stood and went into his quarters. He soon returned with an object wrapped in white silk. He placed it on the floor before Antonine and bid him unwrap it.
Antonine pulled away the layers of silk to reveal an old brass dorje, a Tibetan thunderbolt scepter—a meditation tool symbolizing the foundation of the Wheel of Time.
“This is a sacred relic of our tribe, rescued from the fallen Shigalu Monastery. The previous abbot kept it safe, and it now comes to me. I give it to you. Its power is such that it may transport you bodily to Rirab Lhungpo, Mount Meru, the center of the universe. Once there, if you succeed in a korwa, a circumambulation of the mountain, you can step anywhere in space that you desire—even to Zhyzhak’s very footsteps. ”
Antonine bowed to the abbot. “Words can’t begin to express my thanks and relief at this gift. Getting to the Temple Obscura without a pack of Garou to protect me was surely the most problematic part of my plan. But now I can proceed alone. ”
“As it must be. Others will only draw attention. Phoenix revealed his vision to you alone. Tonight, after you have eaten your fill and Vegarda once more takes to the sky, you shall meditate by the moon pool and there begin your journey to the Center of the World. ”
The other monks bowed to Antonine and he bowed back. They stood one by one and left the room, leaving him alone to ponder his uncertain path.
Zhyzhak gnashed her teeth and wiped the sweat from her hairy brow. She halted her inexorable march and took a deep breath. The constant nagging of the banes and the need for continued vigilance, lest the path itself beguile her, began to wear on her, causing her to stop more often to catch her breath. She paused to stare again at the smoldering red orb above the horizon. Seen through her special lens, its rays burnt away the deceiving mists around her, making her direction clear. Even when the path steered itself astray, she could force it back to its true direction.
She reflexively snapped her whip to the side and heard the squeal of a bane that had been sneaking closer. It covered its eyes with its reptilian hands and skittered away, mewling.
The first five circles had presented only the barest of challenges, easily swept aside by her whip or circumvented by viewing through her fetish lens. Besides, she had danced those circles before when she had fought to attain rank and prestige in her tribe. They had the cumulative effect of tiring her somewhat, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.
The Sixth Circle, upon which she now stood, had a special challenge of its own, one she had never before experienced. The Sixth Circle was said to be the test of corruption, the crucible she must endure to prove her own taint.
The mysteries of the Labyrinth were not always revealed through encounters with creatures or places; they often instilled strange thoughts and desires, memories not one’s own but which had a forceful pull nonetheless. The conflicted emotions and ideologies had to be confronted just like any bane challenger. Zhyzhak now suspected that the doubts she had begun to entertain were not so much her own as those the Labyrinth whispered to her soul.
None of the other Black Spiral Dancers back at the Trinity Hive had ever shown the pure resolve and twisted determination she had. Her dedication to the caern and Grammaw were unblemished in their raw, pestilent decadence. Her fervor rubbed off on the others, especially her hand-picked soldiers, but none could exceed her certitude.
Except White-Eye.
Cursed, traitorous White-Eye-ikthya. His strange utterances always confused her, but left her—along with any who heard him—convinced that he was right, even if his words made no sense. He had that sort of legendary wisdom that held true beyond evidence or faith. No proposition could unseat him, no argument of rage could sway his unerring interpretation of the Wyrm’s wishes. Dancers came from all over to hear his quiet but assured statements about the Wyrm— statements even the dreaded Maeljin Incarna could not aver. White-Eye had seen the Wyrm’s birth into materiality, its brief flowering into the world when the very first atomic bomb had been dropped in New Mexico. The poor wolf had seen it, been blinded by it, and now saw depths and dimensions invisible even to the Malfean Lords of Corruption.
And Zhyzhak had to cater to this high priest of doomful revelation. Leader of her Hive, she nonetheless had to bow to this ancient, wizened saint, a wretch barely able to hunt for himself. She hated it, but feared him.
Zhyzhak stepped forward once more, planting her foot on the twisting path as if trying to pin it down, to keep it from slithering in new directions. She grunted and cracked her whip again, this time only at the air, at the image of White-Eye-ikthya.
His words came back to her, haikus and aphorisms, words of wisdom meant to open her heart further to the heart of corruption. They had muddled her mind but left her breast swelling with pride and newfound purpose, a demented, chaotic urge to convert the gifts of Gaia to the excrement of the Wyrm.
But now, as those words rang once again in her head, she understood their true meaning, a dawning realization long overdue, and she screamed in anger—a deep, primal wail, the bereft cry of a child abandoned and betrayed by her despised but secretly loved father.
She had been duped. They’d all been duped. She saw, with the harsh balefire light of the Labyrinth’s insight, that everything White-Eye said was a lie. He had cleverly tricked them into believing they served the cause of corruption, when in fact, by following his subtle hints and declarations, they had only stalled that cause. He had spent years in their midst, using the language of faith to goad them into a battle here, to forestall a fight there, to plunge themselves into foolhardy dilemma or to delay necessary actions. All in the guise of a prophet, one whose vision could not fail for it had been stolen and returned a thousand-fold by the Wyrm itself.
Zhyzhak’s screams turned to tears and pitiful wailing as she realized what a fool she’d been—what fools they’d all been.
In her despair, she almost stumbled, and in so doing, nearly stepped from the path. At the last moment, instinct—or providence? —saved her. She saw through wet eyes that the green glow had nearly deserted her feet. In an instant, rage blossomed in her breast, drying her tears and sending her leaping back onto the labyrinthine path.
She crouched low on all fours, as if holding the path down by sheer weight. She turned her head, searching, until she finally found what she sought: the crimson blotch in the sky. She let out a long breath and smiled, and then began to cackle loudly.
It had nearly won. She had almost failed the test of the Sixth Circle, had almost failed to live up to its ideal of corruption. She knew that what it had revealed about White-Eye was true—he had indeed fooled them for years, and in so doing, set back the cause. But she didn’t care about that anymore. She only cared about going forward, about moving on to meet her Master.
She slowly stood and raised her hand high, bringing the whip down hard, sending its crack echoing throughout the empty expanse on all sides. Then she marched forward and heard the moans erupt around her as the banes both cheered and cried at her victory.
The next circle was the seventh. Its test was loyalty. She sneered at the thought. Her loyalty was to herself; she couldn’t possibly fail this one.
As she came to a new bend in the path, the ground shook beneath her, an undulating rumble like something passing beneath the soil. She knew that feeling, and felt a pang of regret. She looked ahead and saw to her right, off the path, a hole in space, opening into a desert twilight.
She peered closer and her chest tightened, her breath freezing. There, in the desert
, her desert back home, Grammaw Thunderwyrm had surfaced. She had plowed her way out of the cave and now thrashed about in the open air of the canyon, her horrible sores visible in the pink light.
Instinct almost doomed Zhyzhak then, as she barely caught herself from leaping into the hole, rushing to comfort her beloved Grammaw. She forced herself to close her eyes and continue down the path, her legs weak from betrayal.
A howl broke out in the desert, joined by others. Not the ululating warble of her hive-mates, but the cursed call of the Gaian Garou. She spun around and saw the packs of warriors descend from the canyon walls onto Grammaw, driving spears and claws into her flesh, using her open sores to circumvent her armored carapace. Grammaw thrashed and let out a low, bass rumbling wail, a plea for help.
Zhyzhak screamed and ran in the opposite direction, covering her ears and letting the whip trail loosely behind her. The terrible pain of betrayal dug a raw wound in her spirit, but she knew the challenge of the circle—the test of loyalty. Not loyalty to Grammaw or even herself. Loyalty to the Wyrm and the Wyrm alone.
After what seemed nearly an hour, she slowed her mad dash-—always keeping to the path—and limped weakly forward. She was empty now, void of any attachment to her old Hive, to her fellows, to the Thunderwyrm that had nurtured her as she lived in its Umbral guts.
Zhyzhak walked alone, bereft of any companions, alone forever more.
In her numb despair, she failed to notice the perfectly quiet wolf that loped along behind her, keeping her just within sight. It stopped when she stopped and moved when she did, mirroring her own movements exactly as if well practiced in precise footwork, a creature of grace and poise shadowing a hulking beast of hate and greed.
• • •
“If I so much as see a single other spirit. I’m killing it, ” King Albrecht said in disgust, wiping off the ephemeral blood that clung to his grand klaive.
Normally, spirits didn’t leave such a mess behind, but none of the creatures he and his entourage had fought in the last twenty-four hours were normal. Things he’d never seen or heard of before were crawling from the Umbral woodwork, skittering over moon paths they should be afraid of, invading realms they didn’t belong in.
World of Darkness - [Time of Judgment 02] - The Last Battle Page 11