Onslaught mtg-1

by J. Robert King

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: STRONG RIGHT ARM

  Amid a forest of easels, Ixidor sat upon his broadest balcony. Its white sweep of stone jutted above a lake where dolphins sported and leviathans sang. The platform hung beneath a sky draped in giant jellyfish and teeming with flying fish.

  This was his world, Topos. It had been born from his mind through his hand, borne on canvas into truth. This was his palace, Locus, huge in dimension and infinite in recursion. He should have been in ecstacy here, but instead he was fretted, rattled, panicked.

  "I'm tired," he said to no one-in fact, six no ones.

  They surrounded him, six shadows cast upright in the air. He had created these guardians in his own image. They remained always around him, only a leap away. Each unman was a living portal to somewhere in the palace. Should a threat arise, Ixidor need merely dive through one of the unmen as through a doorway. The other unmen would follow, and then the portal man would close forever. Ixidor could elude six separate assassination attempts before running out of unmen. He should have felt safe, but he felt fear instead.

  Ixidor stared critically at the living portals. They kept him safe, yes, but their lurking silence was unnerving. They were like animate pits gaping around him always. Any moment, he might fall through one. His own creations terrified him.

  "I'm tired."

  A caravan had happened upon Topos. They had drunk its waters and hunted its game, thinking themselves saved from death by sun. They had been welcome until they approached the palace. They called out, promising a grand show. Ixidor had not responded, but aerial jellyfish had. They swarmed, their tentacles long and lethal. They had only been following their instinct: Defend Locus. It was an unfortunate encounter.

  Afterward, Ixidor posted warnings in the sand: STAY Our OR DIE.

  Yes, the needless deaths distressed Ixidor. He was done with death, dealing it and being dealt it. Sadly, it wasn't done with him. Someone would come looking for the caravan. It waited, intact but for the drivers. Ixidor had left more warnings, which would of course be ignored. Where words failed, jellyfish, griffons, and air sharks would not. It was inevitable: All kingdoms had border disputes.

  Topos's borders separated fantasy from reality.

  Was that the reason for this gnawing dread? Armies would come to Topos and try to take it… and die trying. Ixidor was confident his defenses would stand.

  No, his discontent lay within the creation itself. Locus was as haunting as it was huge. Its grand vistas were so immense that peering into them was like peering into the Void. Infinite rooms held mute furniture and blind portraits and brooding tapestries, most of which would never be seen by their creator. The thought of all those dark corners in his home made him shiver.

  Ixidor rose. He turned his back on the easels and strode into his palace. The unmen went with him-one before, one behind, and two to either side. He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter.

  All of Topos was fearsome. The lake was fed by a cascade that appeared in midair a mile above the ground. The waters emptied into a grotto that plunged, cavern by cavern, to hot magma a hundred miles below. Sand dunes formed spirals in space that turned one's feet ever inward. Forests reached roots down to become branches in underworld groves. Ixidor had populated these terrible places with terrible creatures: mayfly men who were born at dawn and died by dusk; plants that wept and pled not to be eaten; stones that thought great thoughts but had no mouths with which to speak them; dirt that ached with implacable desire.

  He could have created anything. Why had he created terrors?

  He reached a garden, one of hundreds. He had to walk across air to get there. The bridge that led to the garden was a transparent fold in time, impenetrable. It led to a hovering disk of stone that held hundreds of tons of topsoil. Fruit trees thrived above berms of flowers, and paths led among green shrubs and white statues. Ixidor shambled along one such route, his living shadows accompanying him. He approached a stone bench and sat.

  Before him stood three statues-a girl kneeling to feed a bird; a berobed woman summoning magic from the grass; and an angel leaping with sudden power out of the jealous ground. They were three statues but one likeness: Each had the face of Nivea.

  She was the reason for this haunted place. AH of Topos was meant for her, yet she would never see it. He had plumbed the depths of the world and set sentinels in the sky, looking for a creature who was in neither. He had made empty shells for companions because no companion could be her.

  "You haunt me," he said to the staring face of the angel. "You have given me this power but have forbidden me yourself."

  The unmen leaned toward him, their empty heads cocked, listening.

  Ixidor ignored them. He stared at the angel statue, her limestone robes rippling in resurrection. Up from the grave she surged, throwing aside the black ground in her quest for white skies. She was perfect, incorruptible. No grave could hold her.

  Ixidor's heart flailed, as if packed in mud.

  The truth was that Nivea was not the incorruptible angel, but rather the corrupted dirt. She had fallen apart in the arms of Phage.

  The best Ixidor could do was surround himself with everything that was not her and then stare unseeing at it all, hoping to glimpse her in absence.

  *****

  "The Cabal!" Ixidor startled awake, clutching his chest.

  Someone was there beside the bed.

  Ixidor yanked back the silken veils.

  A figure stood there, dark against the nighttime wall. It was no one, an unman. Panting, Ixidor tore back the rest of the curtains. Six unmen stared at him, their heads bent in worry.

  Ixidor hurled off the covers and stood. He tried to shove away the unmen, but they shadowed him. Flinging open the glass doors, Ixidor strode out onto the balcony and stopped at its balustrade.

  The midnight sky held only a handful of tepid stars, which gave off a sickly glow. Ixidor peered beyond the shimmering waters and the dark tangle of Greenglades. He could not see the edge of the wood let alone the desert's first dunes or the caravan waiting there.

  "How could I have been so stupid?" Ixidor growled. He whistled loudly between his ringers. The shrill sound leaped away across the waters. "They promised a show. Who promises a show but the Cabal."

  In the deep distance, a shadow struggled free of the palm fronds. It stroked huge wings once, twice, and soared on the wind toward Locus.

  "They'll come for more than wagons and wares. They'll come for revenge."

  The shadow shot out over the lake and shrieked, its eagle beak gaping above a leonine body. The griffon fought through clouds, pulled up above the rail, and lighted there beside its creator. In the tepid light, its pallid coat seemed deep blue.

  Ixidor climbed onto the beast, grabbed a fistful of mane, and dug in his heels. With a squawk, the creature launched itself from the balustrade. Its wings caught hold of the air, and a second and third surge lifted it away from the stony bulk of Locus. Amid whirling vortices, Ixidor sensed a stripping of power. He glanced back to see his unmen, stranded on the balcony. He had made them out of his own shadow, and so they could not ride on clear air.

  It felt liberating at last to be without them. Not until that moment did he realize how much he hated the unmen.

  Powerful wings stroked above the pitching treetops. Beneath the wan stars, palms moved like monstrous heads. The griffon's wings stripped back the forest. In merciless minutes, it neared the desert's edge. Five box wagons waited there, lined up across the sands.

  "What kind of show would the Cabal bring to the middle of the desert?"

  Spreading its wings to glide, the griffon passed over the last the trees. It slid slowly down to touch ground at a run. Padding up beside the caravan, the bird-lion sat. Ixidor dismounted.

  The sand was cold. He walked quietly toward the first wagon, wishing the stars were brighter. He wished many things- -that his unmen were here, that he had brought a weapon, that he wore armor.

  The wagon was ornately pai
nted, with large-spoked wheels and many doors. Panels were meant to slide back or fold out into various bits of scenery. It was a moving theater, and the now-dead folk had been its troop. Even despite the dimness of the stars, Ixidor could easily read the inscription: "THE GRANDE COLISEUM ROAD SHOW."

  Ixidor blinked stupidly. He grasped the hasp of one of the scene pieces and drew it slowly out. It showed a minotaur gladiator, striped with wounds. Ixidor positioned it on the sand and one by one pulled out the rest.

  To the right opened a wide panel, within which was painted a gray set of stands filled with cheering folk. A similar panel opened to the left. The wagon's awning, when laid down across the door, completed the picture of the inside of a great coliseum.

  "Why?" Ixidor wondered aloud.

  A voice came from within, a weary voice at the edge of survival. "For the amusement… of Phage."

  Ixidor took a step back. "What?"

  "For the glory of the Cabal… and the amusement of Phage."

  "Who are you! What are you doing here?"

  "I'm dying… Without food or water…"

  "No, what are you doing in my lands?"

  "The taskmasters… promote the coliseum. We fight… an exhibition."

  Ixidor's eyes narrowed as he approached the wagon. He discerned bars in the windows. "You are slaves?"

  "Gladiators, or I am… My partner is dead."

  Gritting his teeth, Ixidor said, "All for the amusement of Phage." He patted his pockets, hoping to find something he might use on the lock. "Don't worry. I'll get you out. I have a score to settle with Phage."

  From behind the wagon came a terrible shriek-the griffon. Its wings thrashed, and its claws raked the sand. A sudden silence followed.

  Ixidor rushed around the wagon.

  Phage stood there, blacker than the black night. She clutched the griffon in a headlock. The thing's flesh rotted away, just as Nivea had. Phage hoisted the skeletal griffon and waggled its ribs, so that the great feathery wings seemed to sprout from her own shoulders.

  "I knew I would find you," she said. "I killed Nivea, and now I kill you."

  Ixidor did not know what to say. How could he fight her with no tools, no weapons, not even a paint brush?

  Virulence ate through the griffon's skeleton, and bones tumbled like white sticks from Phage's fingers. She advanced.

  Ixidor took a step back, keeping the distance between them. He would not run. He would bluff and bargain until he had reached Greenglades, where his own beasts could rise to protect him. "Why do you hunt me?"

  Phage crept forward, keeping eyes locked on her prey.

  "For sheer spite?" Ixidor asked, nearing the edge of the wood.

  "Yes," Phage replied in a hiss.

  Ixidor shook his head. "Vengeful beast." He hurled himself up a tree bole, scrabbling to climb aloft.

  With a shriek of animal rage, Phage leaped after him. Her hand swiped just behind his retreating foot. Instead of climbing, Phage merely wrapped her arms around the tree. Bark split and peeled; quick blackened and sloughed; heartwood burned right through. With a sudden lurch, the tree and its occupant began to fall.

  Ixidor flung himself across the emptiness, toward a high crotch nearby. His hands snagged the bark, but it ripped away. He fell. Fronds slapped his back as he tumbled. He struggled to get his feet under him but could not. Vines snared his legs, and he crashed down on his back amid undergrowth. There he lay, beneath a thin layer of flapping leaves. He could not breathe, the air knocked from his lungs.

  Phage loped froward through the forest, looking for him.

  "You cannot hide, Ixidor. Darkness is no ally of yours. I am darkness," Phage said quietly. All around her, undergrowth rotted, and soon, Ixidor's cover would be gone.

  He stared up beseechingly toward the branch of a tree, where a pair of red eyes watched.

  "There you are," Phage said. Even in the gloom, her teeth glinted. "Don't make me walk on you. I would rather wrap you in my arms and cradle you to death as I did to Nivea. Rise."

  Fall.

  The black panther plunged from the branch.

  Phage glanced up too late.

  All teeth and claws, the cat impacted her. Its jaws clamped down, crushing her face. Fore claws ripped open her throat and hind claws her belly. Next moment, the cat was slain by rot, but its corpse smashed Phage to the ground. Rots and putrid meat pinned her.

  Ixidor gasped a breath, struggled free of the vines, and cracked a branch from a nearby tree. The broken end came away in a long spike, just as he had wished. He charged, holding the bough lance-like, and rammed it into Phage. He felt the jagged point pierce her chest, punch through muscle, and crack bone. He thought he even sensed the spongy lung beneath. Yanking the branch out, he plunged it into another spot.

  Already, the sharp point was gone from the branch. It struck this time like a blunt pole. Worse, as the last of the panther fell away, Ixidor could see that the claw marks down her belly were knitting closed, and her throat had ceased bleeding. Phage shuddered, throwing off the remains of the panther's skull. Even her face had healed.

  Ixidor rammed the stick at her again, but she grabbed it and yanked herself to her feet.

  Dropping the branch, Ixidor turned and ran. He had nearly killed her. The panther was, after all, just another weapon in his hand, and he had a whole forest of them. If only he could get far enough ahead She was too quick. Phage thrashed through the forest, closing on him.

  Ixidor half-turned, raising his arm to ward back the blow.

  She grabbed his arm, and contagion spread from her fingers. Her touch was agony-cold, numbing, killing. It turned his flesh black and made his muscles into gray jelly. Fingertips to shoulder, his arm rotted. Phage closed her hand around the bone and twisted. Sinews snapped, the joint popped, and like a wing pull from a long-roasted bird, Ixidor's arm ripped entirely loose.

  Screaming, he clutched the bloody stump.

  "If you had let me, I would have held you. You would have been gone completely by now. Will you make me take you one piece at a time?" Phage asked. She tossed the rotten bones aside and stalked toward him.

  Ixidor staggered away. He stumbled backward over a root and fell, staring up into the canopy. "Nivea!"

  Phage reached for him. Her arms opened in the all-accepting embrace of death.

  "Nivea!"

  Something flashed like lightning in the forest. A wide, white blade swept down and struck Phage's shoulder. Her right arm fell cleanly away. It thumped in the weeds beside Ixidor, and he had the crazy thought of grabbing it and placing it on his own stump.

  A figure came between Ixidor and Phage. It was a woman-an angel. Her flesh was alabaster, the color of the statue in the garden. She was no statue, though. Her feet hovered above the ground, unblemished by dirt or grass. Her hair streamed, and her huge wings drove back Phage. She advanced, the lightning sword beaming above her shoulder.

  Ixidor stared, dumbfounded.

  Phage hadn't a chance. She stumbled helplessly.

  The angel lifted her blade high and turned its point downward, and rammed the sword into a scabbard across her back. She was not going to kill Phage-or at least not that way.

  The angel opened her arms and wrapped Phage in an embrace. Snow-white fabric enfolded black silk, purity warring with corruption. Smoke poured from their flesh. Skin peeled like burning paper and muscles caught fire. Bones split and organs drooled from ruptured cavities.

  Phage crumpled. She slid like a greasy bag out of the arms of the angel. Whatever remained of her on the robes of the angel burst into flame and were gone.

  The angel turned. She did not step or flap, but only swung slowly about, her wings gathered at her back.

  Ixidor fell to his knees and then to his face. He clutched the ground with the fingers of his remaining hand. "Nivea."

  She hovered above him, staring down.

  "Forgive me, Nivea," he muttered into the ground. "Forgive me."

  "I am not Nivea."

  Ix
idor raised his eyes. It was like staring into the sun-blinding and painful. "You are Nivea."

  "I am not. I am your new creation. I am the Protector."

  Ixidor blinked. "New creation?"

  "Your dream was the medium."

  He shook his head. "My dream?"

  "All of this is a dream. It began when you thought you had startled awake. It ends now…"

  Ixidor sat bolt upright in bed, breath raking into and out of him. He was covered with sweat. He dragged back the silk curtains and swung his legs down, seeing the unmen crowd nervously up around his bed.

  A dream. The whole thing had been a dream.

  Except that something beamed brightly-powerful, feminine, floating above the floor. The angel drifted beyond the circle of unmen, who cast watery shadows across their master.

  "You are real," Ixidor said breathlessly.

  "You created me out of your dream. I am your Protector. I will keep you safe from all foes."

  Ixidor averted his eyes to the marble floor. "You will avenge Nivea. You will kill Phage."

  The angel nodded with Nivea's own likeness. "I will kill Phage."

  Ixidor smiled for the first time in days. At last, he had created something beautiful. He stood and held out his hands toward the angel.

  Only one arm rose. His right arm was gone.

  He gasped, prodding the stump of his shoulder. It was not gory as it had been in the dream, but still the limb had vanished.

  "I am your Protector, your strong right arm," said the angel. "You made me out of dream and out of your own body. I am bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh. I will defend you."

  Unbelieving, Ixidor probed the stump of his shoulder.

  The angel held her arms open. "Come, my master. I will protect you."

  Tears streamed down his face. Could he refuse? What would she do if he spurned her?

  Ixidor staggered into those brutally pure robes. Radiance scorched his skin and prickled his hair. He was unworthy, yet he was her creator. "You are pure of every stain, and so I shall call you Akroma."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DEATH MATCH