The Shades of Time and Memory

by Storm Constantine

  Ponclast hoped for some show of enthusiasm and bloodlust at his stirring words, but his hara continued to stare at him, perhaps with some measure of distrust. He realised most of them were probably grateful only for their freedom and had plans to melt away into the world, invisible, to live their lives in peace. This was not, in Ponclast's view, part of their destiny.

  “Where is your pride?” he asked them. “Where are the tall warriors of Fulminir?”

  “You know the answer to that,” said a har, riding to his feet. Ponclast did not recognise him, but he was clearly of first generation, sinewy and scarred. “Part of us died in Gebaddon. We are no match for the Gelaming. If we attempt to confront them, they will destroy us. We should take what we have and hide.”

  “What is your name?” Ponclast asked.

  “Kyrotates, tiahaar. I was a general in your army.”

  Ponclast walked slowly down the steps. “It is wise to ask questions, to be aware,” he said. “Your fears deserve a response. Think about how you escaped your prison. Think about how I now have the son of Swift the Betrayer in my custody. We are not powerless. We have stronger allies than the Gelaming ever had.”

  “Who are these allies? We've seen nothing but the deaths of those consumed by the dark forces that emanated from your dwelling, tiahaar. It seems to many of us that our allies might be worse than our foes.” A rumble of agreement came from the hara around him.

  “They are,” Ponclast agreed, “but nonetheless, they are allies.”

  “Who are they?” Kyrotates persisted. “Will they show themselves? What is their purpose in freeing us? What do they want of us? If they are so strong, then surely they don't need the assistance of starved and under-equipped hara like us.”

  Ponclast would not allow control of the situation to slip away from him, but unfortunately he did not really know the answers to the questions Kyrotates wisely asked. “They have already given you much,” he said. “Through my son Diablo, our kind travels the otherlanes at our own free will. Through him, we achieve things of which we could only once have dreamed. The Gelaming do not possess this ability. The walls of Gebaddon were destroyed. We all breathe clean air. Are these gifts worth nothing to you?”

  Kyrotates inclined his head. “They are, tiahaar, but what is their price? If, through luck and assistance, we destroy every Gelaming and traitor in this land, who will rule us afterwards?”

  “I have sent a messenger to our allies,” Ponclast said. “Soon, you'll have the evidence you need. Trust me, Kyrotates. The Gelaming hoped we would be poisoned and would die in Gebaddon, but we did not. They thought we would dwindle and fade, but we did not. Through my own body, I have kept our tribe strong, even though many of our comrades at arms sickened and succumbed to the toxins of the forest. I have given myself to you all, every atom of my being. I stand between you and any danger. That will never change.”

  Kyrotates bowed his head at these words. It was inconceivable that any har present could doubt Ponclast's sincerity, because he did indeed mean every word.

  However, once he had left his hara to their meagre meal, his body was swamped with weariness. He stood in the shadows of a damp dark corridor and supported himself with one hand against the wall. He missed Terzian badly. If he was here now, he'd be the one cajoling the troops, kindling the fire of belief. Ponclast remembered how he and Terzian had often fought, especially over the issue of alliance with the Kakkahaar. Dimly, Ponclast turned this idea over in his head. Where did the Kakkahaar stand now? Was it possible that alliance could be reforged? Diablo must be sent out to bring Abrimel to Fulminir. The Aralisian would possess the information Ponclast needed in this respect, and it was time now for he and Ponclast to be together continually.

  Straightening up, Ponclast returned to the room he had found for himself. His body ached, perhaps at last protesting about the premature delivery of the pearl. Diablo was present in the room, and had dismissed the guards he had selected, having returned there as soon as he'd shown his hostling where the prisoners were confined. He squatted in a corner, stroking the pearl.

  “Has the teraph returned?” Ponclast asked.

  Diablo looked up and shook his head, then resumed his careful caress of the pearl.

  Ponclast sighed. The events of the day had taken their toll; he felt weak. He must sleep. But there was no soft bed to support his body, no deferential hara to attend to his needs. Only the dank and the dark, and an imp of a being squatting in the shadows. The enormity of how much he'd lost washed over Ponclast in a paralysing wave. It was as if the strange air of Gebaddon had kept the past at bay. He had existed in no-time. Now, it came crashing back.

  “This was once a place of strength and power,” he said to Diablo, and sat down on the floor to lean against the wall.

  Diablo came to his side, his luminous eyes wide.

  “It will be so again,” Ponclast said, hoping he could believe it. He patted Diablo's bony shoulder and closed his eyes. He felt Diablo's sharp paws on his face. His son was stroking away tears. Perhaps he had never seen them before. “They will give it to you,” he said.

  “Yes,” Ponclast murmured. He was so tired, he could barely think.

  “They want to give it to you now.”

  Ponclast said nothing. Sleep was coming for him like the approach of night.

  “Now,” said Diablo and shook his hostling roughly.

  Ponclast felt a chill cut through his entire being. He opened his eyes.

  There were seven of them before him, standing in a V formation: figures eight feet tall, clad in silken shirts and trousers of cobalt blue. Scarves were wound around their faces and they wore strange high headdresses of black and blue feathers. Each carried a curved blade, carved with shining symbols. The strangest thing was that their presence could not be felt. Ponclast had sensed nothing of their arrival. They were simply there.

  One of them stepped forward. “We do not recognise a summons,” he said. “We cannot be invoked.”

  “Yet you are here,” Ponclast said. He pushed the tiredness away, concentrating every last shred of his energy into dealing with what he supposed were the emissaries of his mysterious allies.

  “It is time for it. We are the Hashmallim, the Lights of the Faceless Ones. I am Abraxis, Foremost of Lights. I will assist you in certain matters.”

  “I thank your Masters for delivering us from Gebaddon,” Ponclast said. “As you see, the experience has taxed me. I ask for strength and health, for myself and my hara. I ask that Fulminir be rebuilt and equipped.”

  “The hara here are leavings from beneath the table,” Abraxis said. “They are weak; they are dogs full of parasites.”

  “They have suffered,” Ponclast said carefully. “Their greatness has been sucked from them.”

  “We will do as you ask,” said Abraxis, “for the Faceless Ones desire it.” He sheathed his sword and glanced over to where the pearl lay hidden in its nest of soiled drapes. For a moment Ponclast was terrified for his developing son. “You seek to make another like the one that was stolen,” Abraxis said. “Your efforts are commendable, but you lack the composition required. However, it is our will that the one who breaks from the pearl should match in strength the one who would oppose him. In this, we shall assist also.”

  “Thank you,” Ponclast said. He did not like to feel so powerless and ineffectual. Before these beings, he could not swathe himself in the armour of belief he had built in order to survive.

  “Come to me,” Abraxis said. “There are things that hara inherited from our kind, but they are a weak reflection of what is. Learn now of the truth and of potential.”

  Ponclast got with difficulty to his feet. He could not exercise any show of independence or authority. He could merely obey.

  Abraxis pulled the scarf away from his lower face. There was no monster hidden beneath the cloth: he looked har, like the best of hara. Now he stooped and put his mouth against Ponclast's lips. This was more than a sharing of breath. There was no sharing. Abra
xis blew into Ponclast's body a white fire that threw him backward. He hit the wall and collapsed on the floor, his flesh aflame. It felt as if he had spontaneously combusted. He would soon be nothing more than ash. The Hashmallim stood silently and observed his writhings. Diablo ran around his hostling, uttering squeaks of alarm. Occasionally, he paused to hiss at the motionless giants standing before them. But presently, the fire subsided and Ponclast lay quiet. His own breath sounded very loud in his ears.

  “Rise,” said Abraxis. “Go to a reflective surface and look upon yourself, for you are now equal to your greatest enemy, and will become more powerful than he. I carried the fire with me from our Masters. It is their gift to you. You can be Tigron of Varrs, if such is your wish.”

  Ponclast sat up and held his hands out before him. They were glowing.

  “It will fade,” said Abraxis. “Savour this moment. Look upon yourself.” He indicated a far corner of the room and there Ponclast saw a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. He went to it and bent down. He looked into it, but uttered no words. It was like the best of dreams, the hateful, spiteful dreams where all is perfect and then you wake to cold reality. Only he knew that this time there would be no awakening, because he was not asleep.

  He stood up. “Give some measure of this to Diablo also.” He pointed at his son who was gazing at him stupefied. “Wake him.”

  Diablo screeched like a terrified monkey as Abraxis lifted him in one hand. He struggled and wriggled, spitting and clawing. Abraxis put his free hand over Diablo's distorted face and a light came out of him. After only a few seconds, the Hashmal dropped Diablo from his hold. Diablo fell to the floor like a rag doll and lay motionless. He looked dead. Abraxis wiped his hands together. “Your request is fulfilled.”

  “What of my hara. Can you do this to all of them?”

  “Take me to a place where I might observe them without being seen,” Abraxis said. “My brethren will remain here.”

  Ponclast led the Hashmallim leader to a window that overlooked the courtyard where his hara were gathered. It took longer than he thought it would, because so many of the passageways were blocked by fallen masonry or destroyed. Sometimes they had to leap over gaping dark abysses. When they reached the window, night had fallen and the sky was occluded by cloud. Only the flickering flames of the cooking fires gave any light.

  The Hashmal did not speak, but unsheathed his sword. He held the weapon before him, and its bright surface reflected the flames from below. “Watch,” said Abraxis. “I will transform your hara with the soul of fire.” His sword drank the light, condensed it, made it stronger. Then Abraxis turned the blade slightly and a beam of intense red radiance spilled out of it. It roared like an inferno over all who sat below the window. At once, they were thrown into panic. Many hid their eyes, others uttered cries. Ponclast watched in horror as his hara writhed and screamed in agony, to all appearances being destroyed by the fire of the sword. He knew how it felt, and although it tore at his heart to witness it, he remained silent.

  After some moments, Abraxis lowered his arm. The fire in the blade ran like liquid through the markings upon it before shrinking to a point and disappearing completely. Outside, Ponclast's hara were unconscious, piled upon each other like corpses on a battlefield. “Come sunrise,” said Abraxis, “you will have what you desire.”

  “They wish to see you with their own eyes,” Ponclast said. “They doubt.”

  “Tomorrow, they will be beyond doubt,” Abraxis said. “I have given to them the ability that was given to your son Diablo before the walls of the Gebaddon were breached. This is your army of shadows. You will use them wisely. We will not and cannot show ourselves to them.”

  “And will your Masters ever show themselves to me?”

  Abraxis smiled grimly. “They are faceless,” he said. “They cannot be seen.”

  That night, Ponclast lay in his makeshift bed on the floor, with one arm around Diablo, the other around his pearl. He slept fitfully, conscious of the smouldering presence of Golab in the corner of the chamber. He replayed feverishly in his mind everything that had happened that day, until he was unsure whether he was dreaming or awake. But then the dawn came and Diablo stretched against him, opened his eyes.

  Ponclast gazed upon this strange har, who in the early light appeared supernatural. He would never look like a normal har, but the Hashmal had transformed him. He no longer appeared pitiful or wretched. He was alive in his own skin, unique and flawless, a new template of perfection.

  “How do you feel?” Ponclast asked him.

  Diablo sat up and examined his hands. “They fed me.”

  “Yes,” Ponclast said, still lying on the floor. “We have all been fed.”

  “We can't dress in rags. Not any more.”

  “Indeed not. We'll take what we need from elsewhere; clothes, supplies, weapons. There is much to do. Go to Imbrilim and bring Abrimel here. Can you ride the teraph?”

  Diablo stared at the creature, which appeared to be dozing in the corner. “It should be easier than what I'm used to.”

  “Then bring with you as much as you can carry from Imbrilim. Bring food, blankets, whatever you can.”

  “I'll tell Abrimel to gather things for us. I'll make as many trips as it takes. Abrimel can come last.”

  “Those are good ideas,” Ponclast said. He sat up and placed the pearl in his lap. Already he could perceive huge differences in Diablo. “Don't overtire yourself. The spirit paths are very unstable at present, and although the teraph is better equipped than most to travel them in this state, it might still be hazardous.”

  Diablo smiled. “The way they are now, the spirit paths are perfect for me. They're like Gebaddon. Their darkness and strangeness are known to me.”

  Ponclast reached out and stroked his son's arm. “Still, be quick and be careful.”

  “I will go now.”

  “You should eat first.”

  “Abrimel can feed me. He has better food than we have here. I'll bring something back for you to eat, before anything else.”

  Diablo made so many trips to Imbrilim, transporting goods that Abrimel had collected as discretely as possible, it wasn't until the late afternoon that Abrimel himself arrived in Fulminir. Ponclast had spent the day talking with his hara, all of whom had recovered from their ordeal of the previous night. Their enthusiasm for life had been rekindled, as had their self-belief. Kyrotates came to Ponclast and said, “I was wrong to doubt you. Forgive me.”

  “Then trust me in future,” Ponclast said.

  His hara did not want to be Varrs again; in their pride and anger, they wanted to remain Teraghasts. Let the Gelaming and their allies know that they were not as strong and all-powerful as they believed themselves to be. Let them know that the victims of Gebaddon were free and transformed.

  As he walked among his hara, Ponclast observed their animated discussions with amusement and affection, occasionally offering his own remarks, before passing on to the next group. They were like harlings who had just been given their hearts' desires. In no way did he want to quash that zeal. For today, he'd let them celebrate. Some of them went out into the countryside to round up animal stock. There were many feral herds of sheep, cattle and horses nearby, some from earlier human farmsteads but several, no doubt, from Fulminir itself, when the Gelaming had razed its farms. Other Teraghasts set about clearing living quarters and inspecting the water supplies. There was much work to be done, and they did it independently of Ponclast's command. They had come home at last.

  Ponclast dressed himself in Gelaming attire that Diablo had brought for him. He found a long belted robe of supple crimson velvet, which he presumed Abrimel had procured for him specially. He brushed out his hair with a carved wooden hairbrush that bore the insignia of the Aralisians. His heart hammered in anticipation. He felt exhilarated, yet nervous.

  Abrimel came to him at sundown. Diablo left him at the door to his hostling's chamber and departed. Abrimel stared at Ponclast without words. He l
ooked almost sorrowful.

  “Speak,” Ponclast said at last. Was he deluding himself and was now more of a monster than he'd ever been?

  “How can I speak?” Abrimel said. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I should fall to my knees before you.”

  Ponclast went to him and took him in his arms. “You helped make me,” he said. “You gave me hope. Our pearl is born. Come, see it.”

  He took Abrimel to the alcove where the pearl lay in its nest. Abrimel reached out and let his hand hover over it. “Can we ever be happy?” he asked. “Will we be granted that privilege? Will we see our son growing up? Will there be summer days and laughter? Will there be peace in our world?”