Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  On the wallscreen the image changed. Now on a dark background, fixed points of white light appeared and amid them, a single flashing green spot moved. Some way behind it was a larger crimson dot.

  Stars and ships, Merral realized.

  Lezaroth turned to Merral. “Something is happening. One of your ships is moving on an unapproved course. What’s going on?”

  Merral was about to deny any knowledge when he was struck by an astonishing sensation. Something seemed to penetrate his mind, something that probed like a finger poking under the stones of a river. It was as if the levels of his consciousness were, one by one, being lifted away. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair as if that might stop the sensation. But it persisted.

  From nowhere, he heard a voice in his head. What is this ship?

  Merral looked around, seeing no one new in the room. In a sudden, horrendous flash of comprehension, Merral knew that Vero had been right—there was something that could read minds. Whatever it was, it lurked behind the pale translucent wall. As he turned toward the wall, he could make out something stirring beyond the transparent paleness, some massive, black, room-sized angular form. There were noises too: scratching and scrabbling.

  The baziliarch. The word sounded in his brain like the toll of death. That was who the tower had been built for. A wave of despair seemed to crash over his mind.

  The ship—what is it hoping to do? Answer aloud.

  “I don’t know!” Merral shouted, trying to resist. He saw Corradon, Tinternli, and Hazderzal looking at him with puzzlement. Only Lezaroth’s cold, scrutinizing expression was unchanged.

  What do you know?

  The probing—the relentless exposure of his mind—continued. Suddenly, utterly unasked for, memories flashed in Merral’s mind: his work, his home, his friends. Yet all were discarded. Suddenly, he was thinking about Azeras, seeing him on the Manalahi Shoals, watching him picking his teeth as he sat at the table. That image stayed, replayed over and over again like a video loop.

  Who is this? A survivor?

  Merral sensed a strange, alien sensation of alarm. Of course. It works both ways. The baziliarch can feel my thoughts and I can—to a lesser degree—sense his.

  Across the table, a frown darkened Lezaroth’s face. He knows too. He is sitting in on the probing of my mind. Merral’s despair reached new depths.

  On the Triumph of Sarata Hanax was tense but confident. It would be a tricky maneuver—the Triumph was a very large ship—but it was achievable. But I want more than a mere achievement; I want excellence. I want this to be a textbook operation.

  Comms came through to him. “Captain, since she changed course, the target is broadcasting a new signal.”

  “What sort of signal?”

  “Deltathree says it’s to the Guardian satellites. It’s standard protocol on such a trajectory.”

  The weapons officer, who listened in, leaned close to Hanax. “Sir, I don’t like that. Not on this course.” His voice was urgent. “I think you ought to change course.”

  “No.”

  “How about consulting the fleet-commander?”

  “I can manage, Wepps.” Nevertheless, I’ll take precautions. Just in case. “Comms,” Hanax snapped, “imitate her signals. Whatever she does, we follow.”

  The priest’s words warmed his heart. Today is a day when the tables are turned.

  He turned to the frowning weapons officer. “Cheer up, Wepps. Get that boarding party ready. I think this is going to be a very interesting half hour.”

  Merral did the only thing he could think of. Protect me, Lord!

  Nothing happened. Instead there was a new sensation in his brain. It was unease, he realized, but it was not his own unease. It was the baziliarch who was troubled. He could sense that the baziliarch had realized something unfamiliar had happened and it was brooding over it. And from the troubled look on Lezaroth’s face, this unease was transmitted to him as well.

  Behind the eggshell-like right wall, the thing moved again with a stiff, lurching motion, as if it was some vast, room-sized praying mantis.

  Corradon, wide-eyed, shivered.

  Suddenly, Lezaroth turned to the transparent screen. “Find out who this D’Avanos really is,” he snapped.

  Who are you? The voice spoke in Merral’s mind again.

  “I am a forester,” Merral protested, trying to think of trees and woodlands and sunlight through leaves. “I serve the living God.”

  In his mind there was something that might have been a laugh of derision. Then let him deliver you.

  Merral tried to answer with some defiant words but they would not come.

  Are you Ringell?

  There was a new probing now. More images flashed in his mind like scrapbooks being flipped through.

  No, you are not. But are you the one we fear, the great adversary?

  Merral tried to counter with a question. Who are you?

  I am Lord Nar-Barratri, one of the seven baziliarchs who serve the great one. I am an ancient prince of power and authority in the Nether-Realms. I was once great, and I will be greater still.

  The names and titles were so full of proud majesty that Merral felt almost crushed. He was wondering how to respond when a moving red dot on the screen captured his attention. The Triumph of Sarata. It’s chasing Perena.

  Who?

  I gave her name! In his panic and horror Merral forced himself to think of other things: Ynysmant, picnics, Team-Ball matches, festivals. As he did, he felt them all discarded, as the baziliarch relentlessly pursued a single question: What is this ship hoping to do?

  Merral remembered some ancient film he had watched with Lloyd in which a villain pursued the heroine through a house and she tried to deter him by throwing anything she could find at him. This was like that. He thought of his relatives and then his friends, but that led him to Isabella and that in turn led him to think of Anya, and she led him to . . .

  “No!” he yelled digging his nails into his hand in the hope that pain would end the pursuit through his mind.

  This Perena seeks the Rahllman’s Star. True?

  No, no. . . . Yes!

  Suddenly, Merral was overwhelmed by a sense of discovery, as if the seeker had overturned a stone in his mind and finally found the object he sought.

  Yes. Rahllman’s Star. She seeks it, but we will have her first. The Triumph is not just big, it is also fast. Watch and despair.

  Through spasms of recrimination that he had betrayed Perena, Merral saw Lezaroth’s broad shoulders relax as if the tension had been lifted. He has learned something that has reassured him. Yet the stern, thoughtful look on the face remained, as if Lezaroth was still wary that some unseen danger lay ahead.

  The probing relented. Yet Merral continued to feel unfamiliar sensations as if the link to his mind remained. He sensed an angry restlessness as if the baziliarch realized that something had been overlooked that might have done it harm. Behind the translucent wall, he saw new convulsions.

  Merral turned to look at the wallscreen. The green flashing light still moved, but seemed to have changed direction. The large pulsing red spot still pursued it, but was closing the gap. What was the distance between them? Hundreds or thousands of kilometers?

  I have betrayed Perena. Misery darkened his mind. They found out about her. Vero was too confident that the plan would work. We have been fools.

  Merral was suddenly aware of strange and troubled thoughts as if the baziliarch was pondering something.

  Suddenly there was a flash of rage and fear that nearly stunned him in its intensity. A trap! A trap! The thought was a mental scream.

  The look of alarm on Lezaroth’s face told Merral that he had heard the same mental scream of alarm.

  The Guardian satellites are in firing mode!

  Merral stared at the screen, seeing the red dot now nearly on top of the green one.

  “Hanax!” Lezaroth yelled as he leaped to his feet. “It’s a trap! Change course! Abort!”


  On the Triumph, Hanax stared at the screen in front of him. The Assembly vessel was a silver dot with the gleaming blue and white orb of Farholme out of focus just behind it. They were barely fifty kilometers away—just minutes—from contact now.

  “Wepps, ready to deploy the tethercraft?”

  “Yes, sir. And the boarding party is loading the assault craft. But sir, are you sure—?”

  “Yes, Wepps. I am sure!” How quickly can I get the information I need out of the crew of this ship? Will the standard mixture of drugs and torture do?

  Suddenly he heard the harsh yell of the fleet-commander’s voice from the console speaker. “Hanax! It’s a trap! Change course! Abort!”

  Everyone looked toward Hanax.

  He shook his head. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?” he snarled at the speaker.

  On the screen the target vessel was almost within his grasp. Months of accumulated anger bubbled up within him. “Right now! How very convenient! Are you really the only one who can carry out a maneuver?”

  Hanax pressed a button. “Comms, call the fleet-commander and tell him his signal was too poor to read. Get him to recalibrate his equipment.”

  He looked at the range. Forty kilometers now. They had to be careful not to overshoot.

  A twinge of doubt struck him. Might Lezaroth be right? Then Hanax remembered the words of the priest. Today is a day when the proud and the brutal are humbled. His doubts vanished.

  Suddenly, the weapons officer gave a grunt of alarm and stiffened over his screen. “Sir! The Guardian satellites are going into firing mode!”

  Lights flashed and a strident alarm sounded.

  The weapons officer turned to Hanax, a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of horror on his face, the unmistakable look of a man who realized that death was moments away. “They are firing!”

  Hanax touched his talisman and opened his mouth. As he did, the first shockwave of the Triumph’s disintegration into a billion glowing fragments ripped into the bridge. He didn’t even have time to scream.

  Perena unbuckled her couch restraints and stood up in the cramped cabin. There was no maneuver now that would make any difference. The Triumph was closing fast, the wrong signals were being imitated, the Guardians’ circuitry was operating correctly. There was less than a minute to go. She gave a prayer of thanks.

  There was cool, humming silence in the cabin.

  She stretched her muscles. This body has served me well. The idea seemed almost irrelevant. “Lord, when they stand before you, have mercy on the crew of that ship.”

  She glanced at a screen. The Guardians were charging up.

  All that has to be done has been done. I am ready. My tale thus far is ended.

  “Lord, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

  Feeling no fear—only joy and expectation—she turned to look out of the porthole. She was still gazing at the stars with wonderment when cool, silent light dissolved her world.

  Merral saw the red and the green dots on the screen suddenly disappear.

  Destroyed! Destroyed! Destroyed! The baziliarch’s mind seemed aflame with a raging fury that hurt Merral so much he reeled and put his hand to his head. Yet in seconds, Merral realized that the anger was not directed at him. He was forgotten. Slowly, the link with the baziliarch’s mind faded.

  It began to dawn on Merral that the Triumph of Sarata had been destroyed. Thank you, God, he prayed, but as he did, something stopped him from rejoicing. Things didn’t add up. The plan had been for Perena to steal the Rahllman’s Star. Hadn’t it?

  He glanced first at Corradon, who stared at him with a strange expression of realization as if he had finally understood something, then at the others.

  Lezaroth stared rigidly at the screen, his mouth open, his face a sickly white. On either side the ambassadors followed his gaze with blank incomprehension.

  Suddenly, an animated fury washed over Lezaroth’s face. “Kill them!” he said with cold ferocity. He stumbled through the door and left the room, overturning his chair in his haste.

  There was a furious dry rattling to Merral’s right, and he turned to see great black angular shapes—limbs? wings?—flail against the translucent wall. A spasm of thrashing noises came from behind it. A crack appeared, as if an eggshell were breaking, and a trickle of pale, dusty fragments dribbled to the floor.

  “Time to go,” Merral said, rising.

  “Yes, yes,” Corradon replied with a strange, remote smile as if he had suddenly arrived somewhere beyond all his fears. “I was wrong, Merral. Far too afraid. Too little faith. All is not lost.” The words were staccato. He rose and made a slow, stately gesture toward the door as if there was all the time in the world. “You go first. You have fighting to do.”

  They turned to the door and as they did, the building was shaken by the heavy reverberating thud of an explosion. New fragments broke off the cracked wall.

  The stabbing wail of a siren began.

  A reflection moved on the polished surface of the door. Merral swung round to see Tinternli bound onto the table with a bizarre and inflexible motion. He realized that her movements were those no normal human could ever make.

  She stood there for a moment, her head bent forward, her eyes lit with an extraordinary anger, then opened her jaws wide and gave a screech that shook the room.

  There was a renewed cracking noise and on the margins of his sight, Merral glimpsed the translucent wall bowing outward as the baziliarch pressed against it. A loud rattling noise like sticks being beaten together began and the dark limbs seemed to scratch again at the surface of the wall. Something else—wings perhaps—slapped against the wall. Merral was aware of a wild, frustrated hatred.

  Tinternli bounded at him, a savage creature, her hair swinging wildly, her outstretched fingers clawing for his throat.

  As she sprang, Merral leaped sideways.

  Tinternli missed him, landing on the floor with apelike agility. She turned to face him.

  Merral grabbed a chair and as she leaped again at him, he swung it as hard as he could. The chair leg struck her left arm and shoulder hard and, to his astonishment, disintegrated into pale, flying splinters. She’s not human! She can’t be!

  Tinternli cannoned into the table and as she did Merral was suddenly aware of Hazderzal staring at him with a blank emotionless look, as if he had been frozen into inactivity.

  There was a cacophony of noises now. Tinternli screamed like an animal in pain. A boom, boom that had to be weapons fire came from beyond the door behind them. Loud cracking noises sounded from the frosted screen as it split open.

  A smell of dust was in the air.

  Tinternli raised a bloodied arm and, like some ferocious beast, crouched, ready to pounce. Merral stepped back, preparing to swing the remains of the chair. But Corradon stepped forward and with a gasp swung his metal briefcase hard at Tinternli’s head. A sharp corner struck her forehead with a cracking noise and she staggered back and slumped to the floor.

  He killed her! He must have!

  “Should have done that before,” Corradon grunted.

  But the figure on the floor shook her head and got to her feet. Ruby blood oozed from a deep gash in her head and Merral was puzzled to see something that glittered silver in it.

  Tinternli pressed the edges of the wound together. As she took her hands away, the wound trembled and merged as if invisible hands knit the tissue. She wiped blood from her eyes and turned to face Merral.

  What is she?

  “We have to fight,” Corradon said and moved forward, swinging the case again.

  Suddenly, Tinternli thrust the case aside with a mighty slap of the hand, seized his shoulders, and flung the representative away with apparently effortless energy.

  Corradon flew backward and struck the wall. There was a sickening snap and he slumped to the ground. There, his head at an impossible angle, he lay still.

  Merral gasped.

  Tinternli, bent-backed, turned to Merral. He heard
a renewed rustling and cracking as the dark, elephantine form of the baziliarch pushed further against the crumbling wall. Dark, gleaming claws, twice the size of a man’s fist, reached through and tore the glass.

  There were noises in the corridor outside. The door flew open.

  A big figure, made bigger by a slab of green chest-armor, barged through, a twin-barreled weapon swinging around in front of him. “Get back, sir! Down the corridor!” Under the brow of the helmet, sharp blue eyes scanned the room.

  “Lloyd!”

  Lloyd jabbed the barrels toward Tinternli, whose arms were raised, ready to attack. “Get back! I wouldn’t like to shoot a lady.”

  Tinternli twisted her mouth into a sickly smile and leaped.

  There was a deafening blast of sound. Merral, already at the door, glimpsed an appalling something of torn flesh and gleaming metal tumbling backward.

  “Doesn’t seem you were much of a lady,” Lloyd muttered.

  Another man with chest armor burst into the room, and after surveying the scene, bent over Corradon’s motionless form.

  At the end of the room, the translucent wall crumbled entirely and a monstrous form, twice the height of any human being, seemingly made up of dark, resinous sheets, began to elbow its way in.

  Merral stared at it, feeling like an ant before a great predatory insect.

  Hazderzal edged slowly away like a man in a trance.

  “Clear the room!” Lloyd yelled.

  Merral found himself pushed roughly down the corridor.

  “Gotta leave, sir.” Lloyd said. “There’s a war we need you for. . . . Corradon’s dead.”

  “Right.” I have lost a friend. The thought stabbed at his heart.

  They ran down the smoke-blackened corridor, stepping over debris.

  There was smoke in the air and the lights flickered and fizzed.

  Then they were out in the dazzling sunlight and pounding across the heat of the runway to the open door of the scout vessel. As Merral scrambled on board—the last of the three—the scout rolled forward under full power.