Edda

by Conor Kostick

  Athena took a small pair of headphones from her ears. “Milan’s punk compilation, at high volume.”

  “Nice.” And a bittersweet memory of Milan’s enthusiasm for ferociously loud and fast bands swept over him. Milan would have been delighted that his music was so effective against the banshee.

  Simultaneously, the two of them remembered that Ghost was in danger, and they turned toward the tree that held her. It was a relief to see that she was still moving, struggling against the wooden limbs that bound her.

  “Tree,” said Erik, as Cindella ran back down the path. “I take it you have some kind of ability to communicate.” There were no features in the tree to suggest it could hear or speak, but Erik nevertheless got the impression it was listening.

  “Your mistress is dead. Let go of this woman and leave, or we’ll set you on fire.”

  There was a short pause, before a creaking sound indicated that the tree was responding. It slowly drew back its branches to reveal a gasping and red-faced Ghost, pinned to the trunk by the silver comb. Athena reached up to pull it out.

  “Wait!” cried Erik. “Don’t touch it. The comb of a banshee is cursed. Whoever touches it will die.”

  “What then?”

  “Cut her out.”

  “Cut off her dreadlocks? No way!”

  “Do it!” Ghost had recovered enough to gasp out a plea to them.

  Shaking her head ruefully and careful not to touch the comb that nailed Ghost to the bark of the tree, Athena drew the edge of her serrated knife across Ghost’s hair.

  “It must have taken you ten years to grow these,” she said mournfully.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad to be alive; I’ve never been so frightened—not even when I was in jail after that mall raid. I just wasn’t able to deflect that comb; its magic was too strong for me.”

  Once Ghost was clear, the tree that had captured her receded into the darkness, without ever seeming to move. Although still composed of silver and shadow, the whole glade seemed a little lighter now than when they had entered it.

  “What now?” asked Gunnar.

  “Let’s press on down the path and hope we get out of this forest soon.”

  “I concur. Lead us on, please.” Gunnar’s youthful avatar was scanning the dark places all around them, the anxiety in his voice at variance with the impassive expression of his face.

  After a few hundred yards, during which time the ringing in Erik’s ears finally dropped to a bearable hiss, they came to a crossroads. There were five paths before them. One by one, Erik scrutinized them, looking along the paths for what sometimes seemed only a few meters and other times seemed to be for miles.

  “Are we lost?” asked Gunnar.

  “Possibly. But I’m looking for something that should help us.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I once stood in a tower that acted as a nexus for hundreds of ethereal paths. One of these has to lead to it, since it stood on a hill near Newhaven. There!”

  The left-hand path disappeared into darkness that was alleviated by a distant glow coming from what looked to be a structure made of blocks of moonlight.

  “That column of silver light might well be the tower.” Erik pointed the way.

  As they walked on, additional paths came into view; these new ethereal walkways were running nearly parallel to theirs, not only to either side but also above and below them. It was as though they were following the many limbs of a silver sea anemone toward the body of the creature itself. Then suddenly the path ended at a dark rectangle surrounded by dazzling white moonlight.

  “Where are we?” asked Athena.

  “The Ethereal Tower of Nightmare, I think.”

  “Oh. Is that good?”

  “Well, it is not too far from the portal. And from here we can get our bearings and see where the other paths go.”

  Erik had Cindella look over her shoulder. The others were watching him expectantly, so he turned Cindella back to the doorway and walked through it.

  Once again, he was at the center of things. The last time Cindella reached the Ethereal Tower of Nightmare, it had been to complete the greatest quest of all, the one that led to the conclusion of the game and the collapse of the world of Epic. At the time it had seemed essential that he do so, in order to destroy Central Allocations, the once all-powerful ruling circle of New Earth. But since that extraordinary experience, Erik had been troubled by the thought that in ending Epic he had also destroyed something very precious, a consciousness that had emerged from the complexity of the game. And so it was with a sense of guilt and loss that he found himself entering the tower again, almost two years after that crisis.

  The interior of the building was bare; it was an enormous hollow cone into which ran thousands of pathways. There were walkways that circled around each level; they were on one now, about a third of the way off the ground. To reach the floor meant descending a series of ramps and as Erik looked down, he was surprised to see that in the center of the huge circular floor was a chair. It was a high-backed throne of black wood or stone and even from here it appeared massive.

  “Interesting.” Athena was looking through openings to the other ethereal paths. From inside the tower you could see the far destinations of each silver walkway as though looking through a telescope.

  “That’s odd,” said Erik aloud. “That throne wasn’t there last time.”

  Cautiously, he led them down to the base of the tower. The ground floor was as he remembered it: a huge expanse of gray stone paving with a dizzying view upward to where the cone narrowed far overhead.

  The throne was facing away from them, but even from behind it was magnificent. The carved back of the chair rose to twice Cindella’s height and was crowned with a sensuous curve that flowed to a decorated orb on each of the top corners. It was made from ebony or some equally dark wood and the craftsmanship was extraordinary; the whole back was covered in panels, bordered with engravings of ivy, in which some kind of tale was depicted. The story portrayed a delicate-looking young man parting in sorrow from a princess and making his way to an ominous castle. Cindella walked closer; Erik was curious, drawn in by the tale. And it was there, just a foot away from the throne, that Erik was struck with the overwhelming certainty that inches away from him was wickedness, hunger, and malevolence. Cindella leaped back as though stricken, dragging Erik’s friends with her.

  “What is it?” cried Gunnar. “What’s the matter?”

  “Get away from it!” Cindella continued to retreat.

  Ghost pulled out her gun. “Should I shoot?”

  “I don’t know.” All of Erik’s attention was fixed on the throne.

  If anyone else was going to ask him why he was so troubled, their words were silenced by a distinct footfall echoing around the chamber from the far side of the throne. Then another one. A hand gripped the back of the chair, its long pale fingers wrapping around the side with the delicate touch of a lover.

  “Greetings, mortals.” It was a voice out of eternity, it was a voice full of harm, and it was a voice that Erik recognized.

  “Blood and thunder! It’s the vampyre, Count Illystivostich!”

  “Is that bad?” Ghost was holding her pistol steadily in front of her.

  “It’s as bad as it can possibly be. He’s the most powerful creature in Epic. Your bullets won’t hurt him. My weapons won’t hurt him. Jodocus’s elementals won’t hurt him. He can fly faster than we can run. But the worst thing is his voice. Don’t listen to him or you will find yourself agreeing with whatever he proposes.”

  “How kind of you to sing my praises, although perhaps you might use a more elegant and poetic turn of phrase in the future.” The vampyre came into view: a white-faced demon whose fangs glistened in a sensuous, red-lipped mouth. His dark eyes burned with a feral hunger and, instinctively, Erik looked away. But there was something wrong with the count. The vampyre was leaning heavily against the chair. His black leather tunic and dark velvet sleeves hung on a b
ody that was emaciated to the point of being skeletal, nothing like the robust physique that Erik remembered from their last encounter. Where the vampyre’s long hair had been as black as a moonless night before, it was now gray and brittle-looking.

  “All right then, how about using my music trick again? That seems to be pretty effective in this world.” Athena reached into her satchel. “If you all put your earphones in and turn up the volume, I’ll broadcast some music through our coms.”

  “Good idea,” replied Erik, “except I want to talk to the count. Tie my hands and don’t let me move toward him.”

  While Cindella held her hands out behind her to Athena, who wrapped a cord tight around them, the vampyre looked on with a sneer.

  “Have you no manners? To disregard your host so! Desist in that rude practice and converse with me like a well-bred person should.” But the others had taken Erik’s warning seriously, perhaps affected by the note of genuine alarm in his voice, and they had their headsets in place; Erik could hear the faint tinny sounds of the music of Milan’s favorite punk band escaping from the headsets. Unable now to hear the vampyre, they were nevertheless watching with expressions of concern.

  “So, my dear, you seem to know me. Perhaps you can address my disadvantage and tell me who you are and why you want to speak to me?” Count Illystivostich smiled, hiding his fangs.

  “My name is Erik. I’m a human. Do you understand what that means?”

  “I’m sorry, my hearing is not what it was. Would you mind coming a little closer, please, and saying that again?”

  Cindella tried to step toward the vampyre, but the cords that bound her hands checked her progress. Setting Cindella’s face to show a scowl, Erik turned his avatar toward Athena. But it was no use; she simply shook her head.

  “I’m a human.” Erik spoke more loudly. “This is only my avatar. Do you understand that? Are you sentient, or are you simply a sophisticated NPC?”

  The vampyre looked back at him blankly. “Curious. You are lying and yet you are telling the truth.” As he spoke, the count’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Come closer, please. Speaking across this distance is a strain for me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, even if I wanted to. What is stopping you from coming closer to me?” Erik asked.

  “Hunger, my child. Hunger beyond mortal comprehension. It has exhausted me. You would have died of starvation four years ago had all your food been taken from you. But not me. I linger on, immortal, a survivor of a conquered world.”

  “The army invaded four years ago?”

  “It did. Through a magical gateway. They killed everyone, razed every building to the ground. They even destroyed my castle high in the mountains. Not that I cared. Castles can be rebuilt. But these creatures are not food. There is no blood in them. Not like there is in you, in all of you. How the scent of it fills my thoughts. Feed me. End the torture that assails me beyond mortal measure. Give me just a mouthful of your blood and I will assist you in whatever way I can.”

  Erik felt sorry for the vampyre. It was impossible for him to imagine what it would be like to be in a state of starvation for four years, far beyond the point at which a human would expire. And perhaps the vampyre really would help them; they had a common enemy, after all. As if reading his thoughts, the vampyre slowly nodded his head.

  “Spare me a mouthful. You are young and healthy, you will barely notice, but for me it will”—he slumped a little and his voice dropped even further—“bring me out of the abyss.”

  Again Cindella turned around to Athena, this time waving her hands. Frowning, Athena shook her head once more. In order to create some slack in the cord, Cindella took a step toward Athena and gestured for her to remove her earphones.

  “What?” asked Athena cautiously, raucous music billowing around her head. She was standing with her arms raised, ready to push the earplug back into place. The others were watching, alarmed.

  “It’s not like you think. He’s nearly done for. I’m just going to give him a mouthful of blood from my arm. Then we’ll get his assistance.”

  Athena rolled her eyes. “Oh come on.”

  “My dear lady,” croaked the vampyre. But Athena had already replaced her earphones and wasn’t listening. Instead, she was pulling Cindella away from the throne.

  “I’ll be back,” Erik called out over Cindella’s shoulder.

  Not until they were at the wall, as far away from the vampyre as they could be, did Athena ease up. Now that he had a chance to think about it and now that the heartrending words of the count were no longer causing his head to swim, Erik was no longer so sure that feeding the vampyre even a little blood was such a good idea.

  “What’s happening?” asked Ghost, with a rather suspicious look on her face.

  “He is very persuasive still,” Erik answered, “but he’s incredibly weak. When our opponents took over this world, they replaced all the Epic NPCs with their own units. But their units don’t have the blood he needs and so he’s been starving for four years.”

  Ghost looked unconvinced. “So he’s no threat?”

  “Well, his charm effect remains powerful and he may have enough energy to make one last assault if we got too close. But he doesn’t seem to be able to walk, let alone fly.”

  “Why don’t we leave him, then?” asked Ghost. “Let’s find a path that leads to the portal and get out of here.”

  “That’s fine with me. I just wanted to see if he was sentient. In our version of Epic, he became self-aware.”

  “And is he?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think he understood what I was talking about.”

  “Beware!” cried Gunnar.

  While they had been talking, the vampyre had been crawling stealthily toward them. Realizing he had been spotted, the count moved faster still, pushing himself with emaciated legs and scrabbling with his long fingers for a hold on the flagstones that made up the tower’s floor. And through all this urgent motion the vampyre’s burning gaze was fixed greedily upon Cindella.

  Erik shouted “Run!” and made for the ramp that led up the side of the tower. Once there, he paused and turned to see flashes of red.

  “Just trying a Higgs on him.” It was Ghost who had opened fire. Although she was scoring repeated hits on the creature, all they did was slow him for a moment.

  “It’s no good. We have to run a stake through his heart and we can’t do that while he’s awake and able to drain life out of us with his touch.”

  This information, and perhaps the urgency in Erik’s voice, caused Ghost to turn and sprint in order to catch up with the others.

  Behind her, a feeble travesty of his former self, the vampyre nevertheless strove to close the gap with the ferocity of a starving wolf. He was ten meters behind Ghost, and the distance between them increased slightly as the vampyre slowed upon reaching the ramp. All the same, the count kept on forcing his body toward them, and if willpower alone could give him the speed he needed, it was clear they would all have fallen victim to him.

  “Quick! Look into each silver thread. See if you can spot one that would take us close to the portal.”

  The silver openings of the ethereal pathways ran all the way up the tower and they made it seem as though the building were packed with stars. When you looked into one, the image swam and buckled before you could focus on the distant horizons and it took a few seconds to check a path—time enough for several heartbeats and the horrible feeling that the vampyre was getting closer.

  They ran from pathway to pathway, leapfrogging each other, but the vampyre was gradually gaining on them. Unless someone found the right pathway soon, they would have to skip a whole section or more to get away from him.

  As Erik glanced back to see the vampyre pulling himself over the top of the ramp to the level they were currently on, Ghost’s voice rang out triumphantly.

  “I think I have it!”

  They hurried to join her. Unlike all the views from the other doorways, this one included a p
atch of gray that shimmered with the same texture as the surface of the portals they had used. Moreover, around the edges of the gray circle, Erik could just make out distorted green and olive colors that matched those of the tanks and troops of their opponents.

  “That must be the one we need,” he said confidently. Cindella prepared to step onto the ethereal path. “Hurry. We had better hold hands again.”

  As soon as everyone was linked, Cindella raised one foot to move onto the silver path beyond, but before leaving the tower Erik couldn’t help but turn her head.

  Five meters away was the pitiful ruin of the vampyre. It was staring at Cindella with an unbearable look of desperation, and Erik, for all his desire to get away from the vampyre, felt a great wave of sympathy for him. The count was being tortured in a manner that was terrible to contemplate.

  “Help me!” Count Illystivostich cried, and Erik’s heart lurched. Before he could turn Cindella around, however, Athena shoved her through the doorway and with a gasp he was free of the spell. Erik still felt some pity for the count, but knew that if he had listened to the vampyre, they would all now be lying on the stone floor of the tower, empty of blood. Not just Cindella and Gunnar—that didn’t matter—but Ghost, Athena, and Jodocus; they would have been slaughtered without mercy and without conscience.

  Only twenty steps were needed to bring them to the vicinity of the shimmering gray rectangle that was the portal. From their perspective on the silver road, the world was swirling around them like a scene from a hall of concave mirrors. It was a world full of soldiers and military vehicles, but for once they represented no danger. Confident that ethereal travel was unknown to the portal’s makers, Cindella walked right through the army until she could get no closer to the portal.

  “I’m not sure how far we can go from the path before we cease to be in the ethereal world, but we can run from here; the portal’s right beside us.” Erik checked that everyone was close, and as he did so, he saw with horror that the vampyre had not given up, but was scrabbling its way along the silver road.

  “He’s almost on us. Let’s go!”