Oblivion's Grasp

by Eric T Knight

  Screaming with excitement, they poured down through the wreckage toward the meager line of defenders.

  Forty-nine

  When the wall fell, Quyloc almost felt as if he had been freed. All his life he had feared the worst. Now it was finally here. No more running. No more pretending. They were all going to die.

  It was strangely liberating.

  Quyloc looked at Rome, who was about twenty-five paces to his right. Usually right before battle—sometimes even in the midst of it—he and Rome exchanged looks across the battlefield. It wasn’t something they planned; it just happened, triggered by the deep connection between them.

  Rome didn’t look back at him.

  Even from here he could see the despair wrapped around the big man, the slight lowering of the shoulders, the minute change in his stance. Probably no one else would be able to see it, but to Quyloc it was as plain as day.

  Rome had already given up.

  Quyloc raised his spear and silently saluted Rome. He wished he had a moment to say one last thing to his old friend. He wanted to say that he was…sorry.

  Quyloc blinked, as surprised as if the thought had come from someone else.

  All this happened in a few heartbeats. Then the monstrous tree forced its way through the shattered remains of the wall and there was no more time for thought or regret. There was only time for action.

  And time for dying.

  Quyloc spun the spear slowly in his hands, the weapon he had obtained at such great personal cost, and flung himself into the battle.

  Rome gripped his axe and watched them come. Usually when the battle began he was filled with overwhelming raw energy. Despite the horror of battle—and he’d seen enough to know there was no other accurate way to describe it—there was something weirdly exciting about it as well. The rush of adrenaline. The knowledge that any mistake could be his last. The challenge of besting his foe. And, above all, the thrill of survival.

  But this time all he felt was sick. He’d failed. Ever since the day Lowellin first appeared in Qarath his every effort had been bent toward defeating this one enemy and he’d failed completely. This was it. The end. Everyone would die and there was nothing he could do about it.

  This knowledge wrapped around him in a suffocating fog, weighing down his limbs and clouding his mind. Part of him wondered if he would be able to react at all when the battle was joined. Would he just stand here and let them cut him down?

  Did it even matter?

  One of the Children rushed at him, greedy hands reaching out for him. He was half again as tall as Rome, with a weirdly lopsided head and a torso that was oddly long for his height.

  At the last second, Rome’s martial instincts took over with no thought or command from him. His attacker had no skill as a warrior. It was an easy matter to duck under his awkward grasp and slice across his stomach. The man howled and his intestines spilled out into the harsh light of day. His feet tangled in them and he tripped. As he fell forward, Rome sidestepped and hit him on the side of the neck. The force of the blow cut the man’s head nearly off.

  The man fell to his knees, raising one arm to fend off further blows. Rome chopped deep into his forearm.

  But already the wound in his neck had sealed, though his head was left tilted at an unnatural angle. He lurched to his feet, swinging wildly at Rome as he did so, his strength so great that Rome was thrown back. With one hand he grabbed the gray ropes of his intestines, tore them away and threw them down. The wound in his stomach closed right afterwards.

  He fixed his eyes on Rome and charged him again. The soldier to Rome’s right stepped forward and intercepted him, his sword flashing.

  The man didn’t try to duck or block the blow. He just threw himself at the soldier, his arms spread wide. The sword struck him in the shoulder and stuck. In the next heartbeat his arms wrapped around the soldier, who gave one scream and then shriveled to nothing.

  He threw the withered corpse at Rome, who batted it aside with his free hand. The corpse was oddly weightless, more a scarecrow than a man.

  Once again he rushed at Rome. Rome chopped off one hand. The other grazed him and he felt most of his strength leave him in a rush. He staggered sideways. A tree root snaked around his ankle and he chopped at it feebly, was surprised when the axe cut most of the way through it.

  Around him the battlefield was oddly silent, the usual screams of the dying and horribly wounded mostly replaced by choked off cries and moans. Those the Children got hold of simply died. They didn’t lie on the ground thrashing as their lives bled away.

  Off to Rome’s left Heram rampaged like a mad bull, grabbing up soldiers three and four at a time, draining them and tossing them aside like twigs. Their swords barely scratched his hide.

  Surprisingly, only a few soldiers had fled the carnage. Maybe they stayed and fought because their loved ones were only a few paces away. Maybe it was because there was nowhere left to run to. Whatever the reason, they continued to throw themselves at the Children, at the massive tree with its hunched cargo. And they continued to die.

  Rome’s attacker had paused when he lost his hand. He stared at his stump as if in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed as he focused his attention. The hand grew back. It didn’t look right. It only had three fingers and they were oddly swollen, but they opened and closed when he flexed. He looked at Rome again.

  “It’s pointless, you know,” he said. His tone was strangely conversational. He might have been remarking on the weather. “I think you could chop off my head and it wouldn’t matter.”

  Rome fell back a step, bringing the axe up and holding it in both hands. Some strength had returned to him but it wasn’t enough. “Why don’t I try?” he replied.

  The man shook his head. It was still tilted to one side. “No. I’m too hungry.”

  He came at Rome again. Rome took a step back, put his foot down on one of the withered corpses and felt his leg buckle.

  He fought to bring the axe around as the man reached for him, but he was too slow, too weak.

  This was it. The one battle he would not win.

  Fifty

  Just before the man’s hand closed on Rome, something unexpected happened.

  Something flashed in from the side—something long and thin and orange—and struck the man on the wrist. It hit him with just enough force that his hand missed Rome.

  Rome turned his head and saw that the weapon was wielded by a tall, slim creature with yellowish skin. Though the creature had no hair and had unusual bulbous eyes and a lipless mouth, it was somehow feminine looking. She was wearing only a thin shift, belted at the waist, no shoes, and her weapon seemed to be some kind of long staff.

  Rome’s attacker lunged at her, arms spread wide in a bear hug, but she was already moving, sliding sideways with eerie grace and speed. As she did so, she jabbed him in the ribs with the end of her staff, again not very hard, but just in the right spot so that he was knocked sideways and staggered and fell.

  She stepped closer and swung again, but now the staff was flexible, like a whip. It struck Rome’s attacker across the back. Upon impact, a piece of the weapon broke off, becoming fluid, changing, elongating. As the man was getting his arms under himself, pushing himself up off the ground, the piece that had broken off wrapped eel-like around him several times. It tightened and his arms were pulled to his sides. The man collapsed back onto the ground.

  Another one of the Children, a woman with a bizarre mane of thick, yellow hair that stuck out in wild directions, lumbered up and tried to grab the yellow-skinned creature, but she was once again moving. As she twisted away, she jabbed the woman with her weapon, which was once again rigid like a staff. She did not strike very hard, but the woman lost her balance and fell.

  Another blow from the weapon—once again flexible like a whip—and another eel-like piece separated, wrapping itself around the woman’s torso, pinning her arms to her sides.

  Around them dozens of the yellow-skinned creatures had enter
ed the battle. Some carried the same orange weapons, but others had only odd bracelets, a dozen or more on each wrist. All wore the same simple shifts and were barefoot. As Rome watched, one who looked to be male, with faint brown spots running up his torso, pulled free two of the bracelets and threw them at one of the Children. The things struck the man in the chest, changing as they did so, becoming creatures with multiple, segmented legs and hard, chitinous exoskeletons. The things scurried up over the man’s shoulders, one continuing up onto the top of his head, the other racing around to the base of his spine. From the mouth of each a thin spike pierced the man, anchoring them in place, while their legs suddenly grew longer, wrapping around and around him. He was soon encased from head to toe and fell over on his side.

  The female who had saved him turned to Rome and gave him a quick bow. “Respectfully, Macht,” she said, “but these will not hold them for long. We need to leave quickly.”

  Rome looked in the direction she pointed and his eyes widened. The top of what looked like small mountain was visible over the top of the palace, though it didn’t look like any mountain he’d ever seen. It was faintly yellow with what looked like seaweed growing all over it.

  He squinted. It looked like there was a solitary figure standing on top of it. The figure seemed to be waving at him.

  “It is our home, ki’Loren,” she said. “There is room for everyone, but we must hurry.”

  There was a roar from behind Rome and he spun. Heram had four of the yellow-skinned creatures around him. Two had just struck him with their weapons and pieces were twining themselves around his torso. Heram roared again, flexed, and the eel things were torn apart. A half dozen of the multi-legged creatures were perched on him in various places. He slapped at one, knocked it off, then swatted and crushed one of the others.

  Two more of the yellow-skinned creatures joined the fight. Each carried what looked like a huge pearl. These they rolled under Heram’s legs, where they popped open with a flash of light. From each a bizarre, leafy plant sprouted, growing up and enshrouding him in moments. With one more muffled roar, Heram toppled over.

  “Now, please,” she said.

  Rome turned back to her, a hundred questions on his lips, but he knew when it was time to act and when it was time to talk. He heard the horns blowing retreat just a moment before he began yelling for his men to break off and fall back.

  “Form a rear guard!” he yelled. “Protect the citizens!”

  But there really was no need. Every one of the Children was down on the ground. Even the strange trees that had broken through the wall were just standing there motionless.

  Fifty-one

  The evacuation went surprisingly quickly. The people of Qarath didn’t even blink at the sight of a floating island suddenly appearing on the ocean behind the palace. Nor did they hesitate at the idea of crossing the drawbridge that led to a large opening in the side of the island and going inside. They’d seen the nightmare that lay behind them; whatever was inside the floating island couldn’t be worse.

  They gathered up their children and those who couldn’t walk on their own and they ran.

  As the last of the Qarathians made their way across the drawbridge, Quyloc saw Rome and went over to intercept him.

  “What in Gorim’s name is this thing?” Rome asked. “Who are these creatures?”

  “They’re the Lementh’kal.”

  “The who?”

  “They helped us escape from the Pente Akka. Well, two of them did.”

  Rome shook his head as if it would help him think. “I didn’t see anyone helping.”

  “It was…it’s complicated. I’ll tell you later. But I think we can trust them.”

  “Not like we have a lot of choices,” Rome replied.

  Tairus came running up. “Well, now I really have seen everything. Seriously, nothing will ever surprise me again.”

  Opus came running out of one of the rear doors of the palace. “The palace is empty, Macht,” he said. His black livery looked as neat as ever. “I regret that I was unable to collect any of your clothes from your quarters, but time would not permit.”

  “Is Bonnie…?”

  Opus nodded. “One of the first.”

  “Thank you, Opus. Now get on and let’s get out of here.”

  They walked across the drawbridge, which was made of some reddish, porous material, followed by the rest of the Lementh’kal.

  Once through the opening, Quyloc found himself on the side of a wide valley, lit by a soft, yellow light. People were streaming down the side of the valley and spilling out across the bottom.

  A few moments later Ki’Loren began to move. Quyloc turned back. The drawbridge slid back, disappearing into the side of ki’Loren. The opening began to close. Heram was rounding the corner of the palace at a run, yelling. Other Children were right behind him. Tairus waved at him and made a rude gesture with his hand. Then the opening closed and he was staring at a low, blank cliff face.

  None of them saw the hunched figure who clung to the side of ki’Loren as it floated away from Qarath.

  “Welcome to ki’Loren. I am Jenett of the Lementh’kal.”

  Rome turned at the sound of the voice and standing there was a Lementh’kal who looked familiar. “You’re the one who saved me,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Well I owe you my thanks. I won’t forget that.”

  “We would have been here sooner,” a new voice said, “but it took Golgath some time to die. Gods can be like that.” The Lementh’kal who came walking up had skin the color of yellowed ivory. There were lines around his mouth and eyes that spoke of great age, but his eyes shone like a child’s.

  “It’s you,” Quyloc said. “You’re Ya’Shi.” He turned to Rome. “He’s one of the ones who helped us when we were trapped in the Pente Akka.”

  “And it worked!” Ya’Shi clapped delightedly. “You listened and here you are! What a great reunion!” He began dancing, moving his legs to some melody only he could hear. He looked at Tairus, who was staring at him with disgust. “Won’t you join me? It’s really lots of fun.” Tairus scowled and shook his head.

  “Where, exactly, is here?” Rome asked. “What is this place? Some kind of floating island?”

  “This is ki’Loren,” Jenett said, as if that explained it all. “It is our mother. It is our home.”

  “So…it’s alive?”

  “Of course.”

  “And we’re inside it.” Rome wasn’t sure he liked the thought of that.

  “I assure you that you are safe,” Jenett said.

  “For now,” Ya’Shi said ominously, ceasing his capering. When he saw the looks they gave him, he laughed. “What? You didn’t really think you were going to win this war, did you?” He shook his head at their foolishness, smiling broadly. The smile looked unusual on his lipless mouth, as if he had suddenly donned a mask. “Let me tell you something,” he said, beckoning them closer and lowering his voice. “The Children are immortal.” He nodded very seriously. “Immortal means they can’t die.”

  “Are you some kind of idiot?” Tairus blurted out.

  Ya’Shi considered this, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “This is serious. It’s no time to be clowning around.”

  “That is where you are wrong, young man,” Ya’Shi said, holding one finger up like a teacher lecturing a slow student. “This is exactly the time for clowning around. Watch.” He bent backwards and placed his hands on the ground behind him. It was done perfectly smoothly and fluidly. Then he raised his feet into the air so that he was standing on his hands. He began to bounce about on his hands.

  “What do you think?” he called to them.

  Rome looked at Quyloc, who shrugged. Tairus crossed his arms, his frown deepening.

  “Look what else I can do,” Ya’Shi said. He began to execute an unbelievable series of flips and contortions that looked impossible, doing them all with a speed that was simply breathtaking.

  “Are t
hey impressed yet, Jenett?” he called. “I can’t tell. I’m starting to get dizzy.” Suddenly he fell, ending up in a tangle of limbs on the ground. For a moment he just lay there, groaning.

  “Serves you right,” Tairus said.

  Ya’Shi sat up, then climbed to his feet. His movements were the slow and creaky ones of an old man. He held his back. “I shouldn’t have tried that so soon after a heavy meal,” he moaned.

  “Where are you taking us?” Tairus demanded.

  “I’m not taking you anywhere. Ki’Loren is. You’re much too heavy for me to carry around.” He held up his arms to show them how thin they were.

  Tairus turned away from him to Jenett. “Can you give us some real answers?”

  “I will try. But I do not know where we are going either. We do not control ki’Loren.”

  Nalene and Ricarn came up then. Ya’Shi waved happily at Nalene, then gave Ricarn a deep bow. Ricarn inclined her head.

  “What is this place?” Nalene demanded. “Who’s in charge here?”

  Ya’Shi’s look grew pained. “Do we have to go through this again? I’m tired. I want to talk about something else.”

  “It’s some kind of floating island,” Rome said. “And it’s alive. But that’s not important. Right now we need to figure out what we’re going to do next. I don’t think he is going to be any help at all.”

  Ya’Shi’s eyes grew very wide at his words. “It was my idea for Netra to go to Durag’otal,” he said in a hurt voice. “That seems pretty helpful to me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rome asked.

  “I took Netra to the edge of the desert because of what he told her,” Quyloc said.

  “What’s he talking about? What did you tell her?” Nalene demanded of Ya’Shi.

  Ya’Shi scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I remember telling her to get on a giant turtle.”