Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  The mist had lifted now and the dark waters shimmered dully, reflecting the flashes and flames that lit up the town. There was a slight, cooling breeze off the lake. Merral looked up, hearing the flags rustle and seeing the Lamb and Stars palely gleaming above him.

  The fighting was closer now. A flash revealed the gray lines of the enemy moving steadily along Island Road. There was constant howling and whistling, and from down among the houses, ghastly rattles echoed up as a giant grotesque shadow slipped and swayed over roofs.

  In a few seconds, the Krallen advance was in range.

  “Fire at will!” Merral shouted, and there was a chorus of shots in response.

  The Krallen charged. In seconds, they were at the walls, scaling them with hard strokes of their sharp claws. As they climbed, those in front were hewn down or shot, but more followed.

  Behind them, the great shadow of the baziliarch lurched forward with a relentless malevolence and as it approached the gates, the Krallen advance stopped. The Krallen on the walls dropped back to the ground where, doglike, they circled behind the monstrous form.

  The howling and hooting ended.

  As the baziliarch advanced, its vast legs making scratching noises on the ground, Merral sensed the men and women on either side of him shuffling nervously.

  There was a flap of the wings and the creature leaped at the wall. There were yells of terror as barely a dozen meters from Merral, the baziliarch hooked claws on the top of the wall and pulled itself onto the parapet.

  This close, he could smell it now, a dreadful odor of rottenness and death.

  Now the baziliarch lashed out with its terrible jointed limbs and soldiers fled in panic. The terrible eyes, glinting in the flashes and flames, swung this way and that and the light glimmered on the silver crown.

  “Back!” Merral shouted, but realized as he said it that the command was pointless. Fear, not orders, now ruled.

  Shots were fired—a XQ round whistled past Merral’s ear—as the creature, high and terrible against the night sky, flailed out with limbs and wings. Merral glimpsed the weapons fire penetrating the creature and vanishing through it.

  All around, soldiers tumbled or jumped off the wall.

  Merral ran to the stairs and, followed by Lloyd, slid down them to the gloomy square.

  “The hall!” he cried, but his words seemed to vanish in the chaos.

  He ran across the dark square, men and women with him, trying to avoid tripping over the debris and pitted paving stones left by the morning’s bombardment.

  Suddenly, Lloyd grunted and said, “What . . . ? Excuse me, sir,” before trotting toward a patch of darker shadows beneath the new wall.

  Merral, jostled by someone next to him, lost sight of Lloyd and ran on. Once beneath the high stone walls of the hall, he rallied the soldiers around him. We need some order, even at the end.

  As the remaining fighters began to assemble, he looked up. Above the gate, the baziliarch was roaming around, smashing down flagpoles and tearing the flags. As before, expressing its hatred for what we are seems to take priority.

  Merral looked at the forces around him, struggling to identify helmeted faces in the feeble light. There were faces he knew—Vero, Karita, and others—but many other faces were missing.

  A small dumpy figure almost hidden behind the flag that he carried on a staff walked up to Merral.

  “To be totally honest, Commander,” the warden said, in a low voice, “I don’t think this looks very good for us.”

  “No, Warden. It doesn’t.”

  Merral saw Enatus was clasping his sword firmly.

  Above the gateway, the baziliarch turned, reared up with a great rattling noise, and glided to the floor of the square. There it turned and began ripping away the struts and bars that held the gate shut.

  Suddenly, Merral was aware that Lloyd was back at his side, breathing heavily. “Welcome back, Sergeant.”

  “Sorry, sir. I saw Betafor sneaking away. I caught her.”

  “Did you do her any harm?” Not that it matters now.

  “Nah. I was tempted though. Pushed her inside that sandbagged enclosure and jammed the door shut. Funny thing though. The Lamb and Stars had gone off her jacket.”

  “What a surprise. Well done.”

  “Thanks.”

  Merral hesitated. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, feeling oddly calm, “if this goes the way it looks like it’s going, well . . . thanks.”

  There was the soft swish-swish of a slitherwing overhead.

  “Thank you, sir. But we aren’t done yet. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”

  “Sometime, Lloyd, you can explain that to me.”

  With a crash, the gates flew open.

  As the baziliarch swung round to face the hall, lines of gray forms crept into the square behind it. The creature lowered its head and swayed it from side to side, like a vast snake.

  With slow, clumsy steps it moved forward. Behind it, an arc of Krallen spread out slowly. Others bounded up the steps behind them with their relentless energy to take up position on the parapets.

  The soldiers edged back. But Congregation Hall was at their backs. There was nowhere to go.

  Twenty meters away, the baziliarch stopped. As it did the Krallen on the gates and on the walls stopped too.

  We are in the endgame.

  As he stood there, feeling beyond fear and hope, Luke’s words came to mind: I think you ought to challenge him.

  Yes. There are things that have to be said and I am the one to say them.

  Merral handed his gun to Lloyd, unsheathed his sword, and turned to Enatus. “Warden, I’m going to challenge him. May I borrow your flag?”

  “Are you sure? I was going to do that. Isn’t that my job?”

  Merral patted him on the shoulder. “Warden, you are a hero. But be gracious. Let me do it.”

  The little man blinked and handed over the flag.

  “Lloyd, stay here. It’s an order,” Merral said. He grasped the staff in his left hand and walked toward the creature.

  A tense hush fell across the square.

  Suddenly, as he had once before, Merral saw himself in an epic painting, this time as a tiny figure in stained armor with the Lamb and Stars in one hand, a sword in the other, walking alone in the darkness toward the brooding menace of the thing of shadows and angles and gleaming yellow eyes.

  How silly. He pushed the idea away.

  Merral walked forward until he was just five meters away from the baziliarch. Little details registered now: the way the air seemed to twist and turn around the creature’s skin, the appalling play of colors on the eyes, the wide jaws, the complexities of the clawed hands, the deep score marks. This close, the glistening head with deep eye sockets and its cavity for a nose bore a grotesque resemblance to a human skull. The tunic, the crown, the skull. It seeks to ape human beings.

  Merral raised the sword high. “This is the Lord’s Assembly!” he shouted with all the energy he could muster, and he heard his voice ringing round the square. “As commander in chief of the forces here, I order you, in the name of the Lamb, to depart.”

  There was a long silence, as if time itself had frozen. Then the jaws clicked open and the creature spoke. “Fool!” The word cracked across the square.

  A forearm moved, the multijointed limb segments making faint clacking noises, and the claws reached deep inside the dark tunic. The limb rotated out, bearing a serrated sword of tarnished silver twice the length of Merral’s blade. Its edges glinted with a strange, green fire.

  “You cannot challenge me. Your lord has deserted you. He has left you to your fate.”

  Merral felt a razor’s edge of malice in the words. “He has not,” he replied, but felt his words had no power.

  “Shall I tell you why your lord has not sent you help?” The head swept slowly around as if addressing all those on the square. Finally, the ghastly eyes turned to stare at Merral. “He sent you a command through one of his agents and you—yes,
you—despised it. You, Commander, rebelled against his words. And all such rebels belong to me.”

  With these words, the last vestige of hope deserted Merral and he could say nothing. He cringed, looking around and seeing nothing but darkness. I face a demonic power. How can I hope?

  “We found opposition here,” the baziliarch continued, its voice a drawn-out deadly hiss, “and we uncovered its source. We had long heard whispers of an opponent—the great adversary, the one who could challenge my master’s plans for the Lord Nezhuala. So he was found and trapped by his own folly.”

  With two lumbering strides, the baziliarch lurched forward. The stench of death was almost overwhelming.

  Suddenly the sword blade swung out and, for an instant, Merral thought it was all over. But the blade stopped an arm’s length away from his armor, an evil needle glinting in the dull light, pointing at Merral’s heart.

  The head lowered and the fleshless jaws moved again. “What value is the loss of a ship if we destroy such an adversary? Any price is worth the removal of the one who might stand in our way.” The creature’s voice was a proud and hateful hiss. “You sought to be Lucas Ringell’s successor, but you failed. You shall die knowing that today we take this town, tomorrow, this world, and in a little while, the entire Assembly. The realms will be united. It has been decreed.”

  The desperate thought came to Merral that, however futile the act might be, he would attack the creature that faced him. I will not wait for death to come to me. I will meet it.

  Beyond all hope, he stepped to one side and then, with all his strength, swung his sword at the claw that held the blade.

  His sword bounced off the limb with a dull, ringing noise.

  “Fool,” said the creature, its jaws clicking. “No weapon you can either make or wield can hurt me. Now die.”

  The blade stabbed.

  Merral lunged sideways, letting the flag fall. The blade missed him, but passed so close that it scraped over his armor. He heard gasps from behind him.

  The tarnished silver sword flicked back, the clawed hand twisted sharply, and the blade jabbed out again. Merral stepped aside again, but tripped and tumbled to the ground. His sword flew out of his hand.

  He began to crawl to his feet, but froze as he saw, a mere handbreath away from his heart, the unwavering needle point of the blade.

  It is all over. He waited for the sword to plunge into his chest, a darkness of despair descending on him. He struggled to frame the simplest prayer. All he could come up with was Have mercy, Lord.

  Through his half-closed eyes, he saw a blade move. It was not silver, but golden—the living, electric gold of the sunlight of a summer’s day. The tarnished serrated blade was brushed aside and clattered to the ground. The sullen, foul-smelling air was replaced by something clearer and fresher as if a wind had blown in from a sunlit spring woodlands.

  Merral heard new gasps from around the square as a strange—but familiar—voice spoke with a calm and unassailable authority. “This man’s fate is not yours to dispose of.”

  Merral, daring to rise to a half squat, looked up to see a tall, black shape with a long, open coat and a wide-brimmed hat. An almost joylike relief flooded his mind.

  The baziliarch clicked its jaws with a furious energy. “Who are you that choose to confront me? I am one of the seven, a ruler in the Nether-Realms.”

  “You know my name,” the envoy replied, “though you dare not say it. You bear the scars of our last meeting.”

  There was silence. Then the great wings gave a flutter and Merral smelled again the stink of death and decay.

  “You have known me of old,” the envoy said. “You and I stood together on that day when we shouted for joy as the morning stars sang together. You bore a more pleasing form then.”

  “That was a long time ago.” A darkness flickered over the great yellow eyes. There was a hiss that might have been a sneer and the jaws clicked and clacked like some crude wooden machine. “The worlds have grown cold since then. You are late.”

  “That charge has been often leveled against my master and I gladly bear it. But it is I who challenge you. What are you doing here?”

  The tone of stern authority in the voice registered with Merral. Good for you, Envoy. Give this monster its orders.

  There was a renewed clicking. “This is my place now. This is a pretty town that will make a fine throne. I claim both this man and these people.”

  At his words, the hope that had begun to dawn in Merral sputtered and then failed.

  He glanced up at the envoy, sensing that his dark figure seemed taller than before. A golden light, like that which gleamed from the sword, seemed to leak from under his coat.

  The envoy strode in front of Merral, interposing himself in front of the threatening presence of the baziliarch. “This man is not yours. He falls under the protection of the Most High.”

  The baziliarch’s head, its surfaces glistening under the few lights that still lit the square, rose up and the terrible gleaming eyes peered over the envoy at Merral. “He failed his master!” hissed the creature.

  “He did indeed fail the Highest, but he repented of it and has been forgiven.”

  “He rebelled—a most dreadful sin.” There was a hint of mockery in the words. “He belongs with us.”

  Merral got to his feet and stepped back a pace.

  “The Most High has taken upon himself this man’s sin and paid for it himself. As the Slain Lamb, he pronounces him forgiven. The matter is closed.”

  There was a long hiss and in it Merral heard a note of defeat. The jaws grated against each other. “Then let me at least slay him.”

  “Even in that area, you have no power over him.”

  There was another dry hiss and the wings gave a threatening flap. “This world belongs to my master.”

  “Again, I am sent to deny you that. You have no rights here.”

  A forelimb moved wide in an insectlike gesture. “They wanted to serve us. They were prepared to leave the Assembly.”

  “But they did not. They were tempted. But they signed no agreement with those you sent. And I have watched them here this night. The welcome this town has given your forces confirms clearly that they do not wish to serve you or your master. They resisted you.”

  There was an angry, cheated hiss. A shudder passed through the vast body and the wings were raised high.

  The envoy seemed to grow taller. “Your authority does not extend to this world.” His words seemed to shake the still air.

  There was a silence of immeasurable depth, and then the dry jaws moved against each other. “You defy our will. What will not be given will be taken.” The baziliarch reared up again.

  Feeling like a worm before a crow, Merral cringed.

  Suddenly, the envoy raised his sword high. As he did, his coat opened wide. Warm, golden light spilled out, almost as if dawn had broken. Unable to bear the light, Merral looked away, glimpsing many people huddling against the side walls of the square, their faces wide, pale and staring.

  “The powers you have are strictly limited by the Most High.” The envoy’s voice echoed with an unarguable authority. “You have chosen to exceed those limits and so you fall under immediate judgment.”

  The baziliarch’s body flexed and there was a hesitant beat of the resinous wings. The head swayed toward the envoy and the jaws, gleaming in the light, opened wide. “The worlds turn. Our day comes. Our master rises. The serpent is unchained.” There was defiance in its tone.

  “If that is so, it is only because the High King has allowed it for a little time.”

  The head slid from side to side and the forelimbs with their claws outstretched were raised as if poised to slash at the envoy and Merral. Yet they held back.

  The envoy held high the sword that glittered with a living gold fire and half turned his head to Merral. “Commander,” he said and Merral caught a glimpse of a gleaming face that bore a terrible sternness. “Raise aloft that emblem that you let fall.
”

  Merral picked up the staff and held it upright. As the flag fluttered free, it seemed to him that in the strange light the Lamb and the Stars gleamed with a new brilliance as if the stars were real and the Lamb a live creature.

  The envoy stepped toward the baziliarch. “I now utter your name,” he said, and in his loud firm words, Merral heard the note of a legal pronouncement. “You are Nar-Barratri.”

  The creature shuddered and something of the strange sheen that encased it seemed to fade. “You have had other names and other forms, but this is the one you will perish under. You are one of the seven who serve the great serpent whose assured destiny is the lake of fire. You came here as his forerunner. And, as his forerunner, I send you on the authority of the One who died, who rose, and who holds the seven stars, to the same eternal destiny.”

  The envoy’s words were like a clap of thunder.

  There was an angry rattle and a hiss from the baziliarch. “Will you slay me?”

  “No, I will not so honor you. You are a creature of pride and you loathe the race of men. Therefore I will let one of them do it—one who is the least. Now, I take from you the power you were given over that form.”

  The sword made strange elegant movements in the air. The baziliarch’s joints seemed to fail and, its wings buckling, it lurched forward and collapsed on the ground with brittle cracking noises. The remaining sheen around it vanished and as it did it seemed to Merral that all the terror it had held evaporated. The head, a vast black bulk with its incongruous silver crown, sank to the ground as if burdened with an immeasurable weariness. The eyes dimmed.

  The envoy’s coat closed and the light faded though his sword still gleamed brightly. His face hidden in darkness, he turned to the crowd huddled against the façade of the hall. “Elana Zennia Antalfer,” he called, his voice now softer.

  The line of men in armor parted and a slight figure pushed her way forward till she stood in front.

  Of course. She said she wouldn’t go into the refuge.

  The envoy raised a black-gloved hand and made a gentle, beckoning gesture.

  Slowly and rather shyly, Elana walked across the stained and dirty square and stood by Merral, her blonde hair catching the light.