Not long after this crossing, I felt a chill in the air. The others seemed not to notice it, which troubled me. I hesitated, raising a hand to bring them to a halt, and then I moved away quickly, my every sense alert. The air fairly crackled with electricity, something that had not been the case moments earlier. A circular glow began to coalesce in the air a few dozen yards away. Whirling, I gestured for the humans to get down, to hide themselves behind a clump of brush and fallen trees, and I followed them moments later. I held a finger to my lips to forestall any questions, and then we all peeked over the top, watching to see what developed.
The glow resolved itself into a blazing portal, and out stepped the Dark Man I’d battled earlier. Or, at least, it certainly looked like him. Black robes concealing his shape and form, face covered in a featureless mask that seemed to absorb light into its depths, he strode forward, head turning this way and that, as if searching, searching…
Seconds later, a second portal blazed open, and a nearly identical figure stepped through. Great, I thought to myself. One was bad enough. How many can there be?
I am no warrior god. I am not gifted with the cosmic flames of Vashtaar, or with the electrical abilities of Korvakh, nor even with Baranak’s two good fists. Concealment, however, lies well within my talents. As we crouched there in the forest, behind our meager camouflage, I raised one hand and concentrated, encouraging a general assumption among any within range that nobody lurked behind these logs; that things were perfectly normal here, thanks for asking; that there was no one back here but us chickens.
Satisfied that I had masked our presence as best I could, I waited and watched as the two enigmatic figures in black approached one another, reaching out simultaneously to touch fingertips together. Electricity danced between them. At that moment, crimson lightning flared in the sky and struck down at them. They both lit up like red neon bulbs momentarily, then faded to dull black again. All very lovely, to be sure, but it told me nothing I didn’t already know—which was little.
Apparently unhurt, the figures in black turned their backs on one another, and portals flared open ahead of each of them. Without further ado, each strode forward and vanished, the portals dwindling to bright points of light behind them, before vanishing entirely, as if they’d never been.
“Who,” Cassidy was already asking me, “were they?”
“What just happened?” Kim added.
I glared at them by way of reply, then started forward again. Soon enough, they followed.
The humans had the good sense to let me be for most of the journey, my mood having transformed itself to match our surroundings. Some time later, however, Evelyn caught up with me, a question on her lips.
“The big guy—Baranak—said most of your kind had been killed. How do you know the one you seek is still alive?”
“I don’t,” I answered. “But we are about to find out.” I pointed through the dense branches to a row of tiny lights sparkling just ahead.
Ten more minutes of tramping through slime brought us out of the dense growth and into a broad clearing, its central area dominated by an ancient stone castle complete with blazing torches along its walls and a drawbridge over a nearly dry moat. Weeping willows stood along the periphery of the clearing, doing their best to contribute to the gothic atmosphere. Somewhere to my left, predictably, a wolf howled. I made to approach the bridge, but before I’d taken half a dozen steps, a voice sounded from high above.
“From the look of you,” the voice said, “you have come by the long way.”
I gazed up at the figure leaning over the wall and waved once.
“It seemed wisest,” I replied, deadpan.
“In these times of uncertainty, I would say you acted properly.” His voice was rich and deep, with a hint of age to it—surely chosen for effect. After a moment, he added, “You didn’t do it.”
“Your wisdom remains undiminished,” I replied. “I did not.”
The rain drizzled harder, and I called back to him, “So, may we come in?”
But he was gone from the wall.
I frowned, but cheered up immensely as the broad wooden door across the bridge opened, seemingly of its own accord.
“His castle seems to be welcoming us, anyway,” Evelyn noted.
“There’s little difference,” I replied, directing them all to cross the bridge.
The interior of the castle’s main hall displayed treasures from a multitude of places and times, and the humans reacted to the sight precisely the way I’d expected. They gawked and stared. For my own part, I was somewhat disappointed; at some point in the past thousand years, Malachek had apparently grown weary of the more bizarre features of his residence and removed them. No longer did stairways and halls perform impossible right-angle turns into nowhere. It seemed his fascination with Escherian architecture had ended, though I was certain surprises aplenty remained for the unwary within his domicile.
“Greetings!”
At the top of a set of grand but quite normal stairs stood the god of wisdom in all his glory. He was, of course, just as I remembered him from so long ago: tall and slender, with an aquiline nose, and wearing the same brown tweed suit of indeterminable vintage in which I always pictured him. His silver-gray hair, long in the back, was partially covered by a hat that still dripped rainwater, but as he descended the steps he quickly removed it and bowed.
“Welcome to the house of Malachek,” he said with stiff formality.
Malachek.
In the months and years before the revolt, many of the others had come to him, soliciting his views on the growing conflict. Those who had not already made up their minds one way or the other looked to him for guidance and advice. Given his Aspect, this was hardly surprising. Knowing he therefore could have a potentially significant impact on the outcome, or at least on the disposition of the factions, leading figures from both camps visited his estate, hat in hand, seeking his blessing.
He met all entreaties with stony silence.
Oh, he could hold forth on nearly any other subject for hours, if given the opportunity. His expertise in so many fields was unrivaled. But with regard to the dispute between the faction nominally led by Baranak and my own, Malachek always walked a strictly neutral path, consorting with both, favoring neither. Not once did he publicly state a position on the matter.
He might have swung the balance, but he chose instead to keep his own counsel. It was quite maddening.
When the forces of Baranak--the forces of hidebound reactionary conservatism--finally met the revolutionaries in the square of the City, there on that fateful day so many centuries ago, Malachek was nowhere to be seen. He knew precisely how the conflict would end, and knew that by not acting, he was in fact guaranteeing the outcome.
Later, when they threw me into the dungeons for the first time, I tried desperately not to hate him. He had not fought against me, and had not helped my enemies. I understood this. I should not have hated him then, and I surely could not hate him now.
Nevertheless, old slights, even those merely perceived, die hard.
Before I could utter a word, I heard the humans all gasp in surprise. I turned back to see what had startled them, but I should have known already. Malachek’s ghost-guardians flickered about the room, their ethereal forms solidifying momentarily as they engaged in any number of tasks, from dusting the ancient wooden furniture to sweeping away the muddy tracks we’d left on the floor. One took Malachek’s soaked hat as it passed, while another brought him his pipe.
“Do not be troubled,” he reassured the humans. “Baranak has his Hosts, and I have my Ghosts. Of the two, I assure you these are much better behaved.”
Smiling, he gestured them toward a side room.
“You will be provided with refreshments in there. Please make yourselves at home while I speak with Lucian.”
As the humans cautiously entered the room Malachek had indicated, he gestured me toward the library.
“Come and sit. We will discus
s recent events and make such sense of it all as can be made.” As an aside to me, he whispered, “New minions, eh?”
“Burdens, rather,” I replied, “though only until I can find a proper way of disposing of them.”
His face betrayed a measure of alarm.
“Now, Lucian—do be civil. They seem perfectly harmless.”
He surreptitiously looked them over, his gaze pointedly dwelling upon Evelyn.
“And not altogether unattractive.”
Still wary of the flickering specters, Evelyn, Cassidy and Kim made their way into the cozy library, followed by Malachek and myself. The fireplace blazed warm and welcoming, immediately driving the chill from my bones, as did the snifter of brandy he handed over. As the humans warmed themselves and looked over the old god’s collection of books and maps, Malachek directed me to a rich, leather-upholstered chair. Into this I was all too happy to collapse my lank form after a night on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon. My senses, still not fully attuned to the reawakened Power, warned me not to make myself too comfortable—to watch for any signs of betrayal. My aching body argued persuasively otherwise, however, and quickly prevailed. I sank into the cushions.
Conjuring an identical chair opposite me, he filled his delicately carved pipe with tobacco and lit it. Settling back into the cushions, he exchanged pleasantries with me briefly. Then his expression grew more somber, and he came quickly to the point.
“Let us assume,” he began, “that I believe you had nothing to do with the recent deaths.”
I nodded, quite happy for someone to believe this, even if only hypothetically.
“The first I heard of it was when Baranak accused me,” I told him.
“So what do you intend to do?”
I laughed humorlessly.
“I have to admit, the temptation is great to secure a case of good whiskey and vanish into a pocket universe until Baranak or somebody else finds the real killer.”
Malachek smiled.
“But you won’t.”
I inhaled deeply, looked away, exhaled slowly.
“No. I won’t. Because I have very little confidence in Baranak’s ability to find his ass with both hands and a set of directions; even less in his capacity to recognize the truth; and still less of a sense that he even cares to.”
“You are probably right,” he said.
“Think about it,” I said. “Nobody has died recently. He executes me, and everyone is happy, and he remains popular. If the real killer starts up again later, all the better for Baranak—he can launch into action, bringing in another suspect. And those who remain will be cowed into obeying him, following his orders.” I met Malachek’s eyes again, feeling the old resentments building once more. “I do not much care for those who rule through fear and intimidation.”
“Of course not,” he replied. “You prefer the more subtle methods of bending your peers to your will.”
I smiled. “Touché.”
He puffed his pipe and regarded me silently for a time through the blue haze.
“So what can you tell me?” I finally asked.
“Many things.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Any of them pertinent?”
His eyes narrowed briefly, then relaxed into a smile.
“I will let you be the judge of that,” he replied.
Leaning back in his chair, he gestured, conjuring a holographic representation of the central square of the City within the drifting smoke. At the heart of the image, the plume of the Fountain towered in all its glory.
“Very recently, as we judge time” he began, “the Fountain stopped flowing. Almost certainly, the murders—if murders they were—took place during that time. The only alternative would have been for the killer to drag seventy-two gods to the main square of Heaven and throw them into the Fountain, and I seriously doubt that could have been accomplished in so short a time, under Baranak’s watchful eye, and with no one else noticing.”
“Unless Baranak did it himself,” I suggested, sipping my brandy. “Of all the gods, he is the only one who could have overpowered each of the others one-on-one.”
Malachek considered this.
“I have never been particularly fond of Baranak,” he said. “You know this, or you would not have come here. But I cannot imagine him capable of such an act, nor do I see any reason why he might wish to do so. Likewise, while I do not care for his personality, I have never had cause to doubt his sense of honor. If he was prepared to execute you, he was convinced of your guilt.”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“So he means well,” I said. “Fine. But he is wrong.”
Malachek’s expression was unreadable.
“Of course,” he said.
He gestured sharply, and the floating image vanished.
My mind searched quickly through all I’d seen and heard since returning to the City, and again I pondered our release from the dungeon, and my misgivings there.
“What do you know of Alaria?” I asked him.
“Alaria?” He frowned. “As much and as little as anyone, I suppose.”
I described for him the events of the past few hours.
He steepled his fingers before his lips and considered.
“It could be that she was genuinely concerned for you, or for the truth, or both. But then, how often do any of us have only one single, clear motive behind anything we do?”
He smiled warmly.
“Now, for example. I help you because it serves the interests of finding the truth and of preventing an injustice. But by the same token, it also serves me personally, should you emerge from these circumstances in better position than Baranak and his friends.”
I admitted to myself that I had not considered that part of the equation, and felt a measure of respect and even fondness in my heart for Malachek.
He stroked his chin absently, the way he always did when running up against a problem for which he did not have an immediate answer.
“You say Vorthan was with Baranak?” he asked. “Odd… It was always Rashtenn who stood at Baranak’s side—but I suppose now that would be impossible. No wonder the old warrior’s taking it all so hard.” Malachek shook his head. “Such a waste… Eternity seventy-two times over, gone in such a brief time.”
I bowed my head along with him for a moment, but then pressed on, anxious for more information and nervous about staying in one place for too long.
“So Vorthan working closely with Baranak is a new development?” I asked.
Malachek nodded.
“Oh, yes. Vorthan was never part of the inner circle.”
He puffed on his pipe, a cloud of smoke floating over his head.
“It would make sense, though, at least at this time,” he continued. “If the Fountain had to be repaired in some manner, our god of toil would surely be the one to turn to.”
I nodded and mulled this over. Then another question—one I should have considered much earlier—came to mind.
“Why might the Fountain have stopped flowing at all? I had thought it a possibility when the Power abandoned me in exile, but there was precious little I could do about it then. For all I knew, they had found some way to cut me off, specifically. I did not discover the truth until recently.”
“I’ve assumed it to have been a natural phenomenon,” he said. “Perhaps some sort of outside interference, or something diverting it at its source, about which we know next to nothing, even after all this time.”
I considered this.
“What if someone wanted to block it off intentionally? Would it be possible?”
“Intentionally?” His eyes widened, and he puffed on his pipe again, smoke now wreathing about him like a cocoon. “It would be extremely difficult to hold back the flood,” Malachek said, “but not impossible, I think. But it would require very careful work and very precise engineering knowledge of the Fountain.”
We looked at one another then, the same thought passing through our minds simultaneously. The s
ame face.
“But… why?” Malachek asked, almost incredulous. “Just to allow the murder of the gods? What gain could there possibly be, from such a thing?”
I had a few ideas along those very lines, and started to reply, when all about us the flickering ghost-guardians froze in their tracks and vanished, instantly replaced by frenetically swirling lights. A loud wail echoed from every room in the castle.
I looked up, my first thoughts of the three humans who had accompanied me.
“What have they gotten into?” I asked, rising to my feet.
“No, it is an external alert,” Malachek replied over the blaring noise. “Someone approaches. Someone powerful.”
“That would be our cue, then.”
The humans raced in from the adjoining room, Cassidy still holding a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other, eating and imbibing as much as he could while the opportunity lasted. I had known a few men and women like him during my exile, and I found I liked him more than I had previously thought.
“What is it?” Evelyn asked.
All three humans wore questioning expressions.
“Time to go,” I told them.
Malachek gestured toward a rear door and I moved to follow him.
“Thank you for sharing your wisdom and your advice,” I said. “It was most welcome.”
“I hope I have been of some small assistance,” he replied, frowning, “though I have taken little comfort from our conversation.”
He led us quickly into a small sitting room.
“Perhaps I can also help you along your way.”
The wall in one area was recessed slightly. At a gesture on his part, the stone seemed to melt, falling away in liquid globs to reveal an opening.
I peered through and saw naught but darkness.
“A bolt hole,” I observed. “But to where?”
Malachek smiled the most devious smile I had ever seen him attempt.
Lucian: Dark God's Homecoming (The Above Book 1) Page 4