by Alec Hutson
“You think there is some hidden meaning to his rambling?”
Bell shrugs away my skepticism. “I don’t know. But I will continue to consider what he said.”
A waste of time, in my opinion, but I don’t tell her that. Any distraction right now that keeps her from considering the direness of our situation is probably welcome.
We pass into shadow as the sun disappears behind the curve of the skull’s pate. In front of us, the mouth looms like a vast cavern. A pale light suffuses the gloom inside, but it’s not until the enormous teeth hang suspended above us that I can see what waits within.
“Tainted Saints,” Bell breathes.
The skull is hollow. Whatever organic substance once filled it has vanished, leaving barren walls that curve upwards to form an unimaginably vast dome. The light that permeates the space comes from both the eye and nose sockets, and also where a section of the skull up near its apex has been ripped away. A lance of daylight stabs down through the murk from this hole, illuminating a massive chunk of bone. This looks to be the fragment of cranium that tumbled free. There is nothing else except for this fallen shard, although the farthest reaches of the skull are draped in shadow. No Shriven that I can see, no demon goddess.
But something waits for us here.
The air is heavy with its presence, and I feel its awareness crawling across my skin as I stare up at the shaft of light. Somehow, I know that whatever intelligence is behind that feeling is coiled atop the piece of fallen skull.
To my surprise, it does not radiate malice. I have the sensation of being regarded with something almost like . . . amusement. Surprise, perhaps, that we have entered this sanctum, but not anger or fear.
The way to reach the top of the great chunk of skull is clear enough. The skeleton of some unimaginably long serpent stretches from the dark earth, the end of its tail close to our boots and its fangs sunk into the top of the plateau above. The bones of the snake are as black as obsidian and look to have been lacquered somehow – the spine is just wide enough for us to edge our way along single file, and there is nothing to keep us from plummeting down if we fall. A tingle of fear goes through me at the thought of how slippery those bones must be, and what would happen if the winged creatures we’ve seen lairing in the skull swoop down upon us while we are ascending. I glance upwards at where the light from the outside is trickling through the nose-sockets, but I can’t see any of those creatures.
“She’s up there, isn’t she?” Valyra says quietly, her gaze fixed on the great knob of bone.
No one bothers to reply. We all know the answer to that question.
“Do you remember this place, Prophet?” Deliah asks, and I see that she’s now holding her glaive.
Ezekal sniffles and rubs at his nose, swaying. He stares for a moment at the smear of blood on the back of his hand, then wipes it off on his robes. “Just . . . images. When I ascended this snake with Alesk the ground here teemed with countless Shriven. I looked down and saw them wriggling together like a great nest of termites. And the sound they made . . .” He shudders. “But of what awaits us at the top I remember nothing. Blinding light and a voice that promised us salvation . . .”
“So where are the Shriven?” Bell asks as the Prophet’s words trail away.
“Let us not wait to find out,” Deliah replies, beginning to climb the dead serpent. She keeps ahold of her glaive, which sends a pang of worry through me, but every step she takes on the vertebrae is as sure as if she is hurrying up a set of stairs.
“You next,” I tell Ezekal. The Prophet gives me an empty look, and then he follows the lamias. He’s much more tentative, leaning forward to grip the ribs curving away from the spine as he climbs.
Then I turn to Bell and Valyra. “I’ll be last.”
My companions nod. I can still see resolve in their faces, but it is now clearly tempered by fear. They are probably imagining exactly what I am: our combined weight causing the fragile-looking skeleton to break, and us tumbling to the ground. Wouldn’t that be an ignoble end to our quest, dashed to pieces among the fragments of a dead snake.
“Talin.”
I glance up. Deliah is perched halfway up the spine, pointing with her glaive at the skull’s mouth. I turn, something in her voice concerning me.
There is movement on the broken plain. Things are emerging from the fissures – Scythes, using their bone limbs as climbing hooks to haul themselves up from the depths.
Hundreds of them.
Well, shit.
“Up!” I cry, trying to urge Valyra and Bell to move. They’ve both paused, twisting their heads around to see what’s happening, but with my command they start again.
I draw my sword and begin the ascent. I lack Deliah’s agility and confidence, so I climb doubled over, with my free hand clutching at knobs of bone.
From behind me rises an unnatural crooning.
I keep my eyes fixed on Valyra, who is a few lengths in front of me. Her limbs are trembling, but she struggles on without a whimper. Above us, Deliah has reached where the snake’s great fangs are sunk into the bone. She clambers over the skull and vanishes from sight. I’m worried what she’ll find up there, but right now my focus is on escaping the threat below. With that thought I glance down – the Shriven are streaming into the skull through the gaping mouth, but they don’t seem to be too concerned with chasing us up the spine. They are moving sluggishly, as if still half-asleep.
We shouldn’t wait for them to wake up.
“Hurry!” I snarl, and Valyra redoubles her speed. I can hear her gasping now, but I’m not sure if she’s laboring because of exhaustion or fear. My chest clenches as her hand slips from a rib and she sprawls forward, the breath going out of her in a pained grunt as she strikes the spine hard. I’m just about ready to lunge forward and try to grab her if she looks like she’s about to slide off the skeleton, but after a moment she collects herself and resumes the climb.
Relief floods me when she finally reaches the back of the snake’s skull. Deliah is there, crouched on the ridge of one of its eyes with her arm extended. Valyra reaches out with a shaking hand, and the lamias grabs her wrist and pulls her to safety. Before she can turn to help me, I scramble over the skull and stagger out onto the plain of bone.
My companions haven’t moved from the dead serpent, and I quickly see why: not far away a woman stands, turned away from us. She’s at least a full head taller than I am. Her skin is a luminous gold, and the long silver hair falling down her back shimmers like moonlight on water. She’s dressed in wisps of diaphanous cloth that are stirring in an unfelt breeze.
Bell and I share an uncertain glance. Is this the Mother of the Shriven?
“Talin,” Deliah murmurs softly. She has remained beside the serpent’s skull, her attention divided between the golden woman and what is happening below. “I will stay here to make sure the demons do not catch us unawares. You must be the one that ends this.”
I nod and turn away from the lamias. Keeping my sword unsheathed, I approach the woman as quietly as possible.
But of course she knows I’m here, and before I can get close enough to strike her down she smoothly turns.
And smiles.
I can’t help but stop. She’s beautiful, flawless even, but it isn’t that perfection that paralyzes me. It’s the warmth in her smile. I know deep down she welcomes me being here.
Her pupiless eyes of liquid silver slide past me to alight upon my companions. As her gaze releases me I take a shuddering breath. I should leap at her, take off her head with my sword. But even though my mind is urging me to move, my arm stays at my side.
“Welcome, children,” she murmurs. The words tremble in the air like gently struck crystal.
Ezekal is the first to move. “Mother,” he says, stumbling towards the woman. The black lines etched into his face have deepened even further, and he collapses just as he reaches her. She catches him effortlessly, her hands going under his arms to steady him. He moans, staring up at h
er shining face.
“My beautiful child,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. “What have they done to you?”
Her attention seems to withdraw from us as she focuses on Ezekal. I blink, feeling some modicum of control seep back into my tingling limbs. I also find my gaze drawn to something I hadn’t noticed until now. Behind the golden woman is a mound. At its highest point it comes a little past my waist. It is gray and lumpy and threaded with white and red veins. I’ve seen something similar before, clinging to my blade after a battle.
I’m looking at a massive chunk of brain.
Ezekal is sobbing now, his thick fingers clutching at the woman’s gossamer shift. She cups his cheeks with her hands and shakes her head slowly as she studies his face.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and the sadness in her voice makes my own eyes water. “Yes, I can see you,” she says, a sudden edge to her words that sends a shiver through me. It doesn’t seem like she’s speaking to Ezekal anymore. “You thought you could scurry around inside there, watching and waiting. Do you have a terrible surprise for me? Some poison from the Place Beyond?” She sighs deeply. “You force my hand, Interloper. I will cleanse the infection here and then find you wherever you have fled among the worlds.”
“Mother?” Ezekal whispers hoarsely as her fingers tenderly trace the black lines branching under his skin. He sounds lost. Confused.
“You were faithful, my child. I am grieved that I must do this.”
Ezekal’s eyes flare wide and his mouth opens, but no sound escapes. His body is rigid, his hands still clutching her vestments. Slowly the blackness in his face seeps away, replaced by a light blue, as if the veins are filthy streams flushed clean by a torrent of pure water.
When the darkness is finally cleansed she lets go of Ezekal and he topples. She stares down at him sorrowfully, her lips drawn down into a frown, her brow crinkled.
“Please know I did that with the deepest regret,” she says, and I know she is speaking to us even though she is still staring at the unmoving Prophet. “There was a sickness in him from beyond the stars. Something that was not of this reality had placed a shard of itself inside him, and if I had allowed it to fester, it could have wreaked havoc in this world.”
“Is he dead?” It takes me a moment to realize that it was I who voiced this question. I feel untethered, my thoughts drifting.
“He is,” the woman says sadly. “He will never witness his people enter this world.” She looks up, the swirling power of her gaze settling on me again. “That will be your duty now, Alesk.”
My mouth is dry, and for a moment I struggle to answer. “I am not Alesk anymore,” I rasp, but my words sound hollow to my ears.
The woman steps towards me over the prone body of the Prophet. “You are. You simply do not know it. Here, let me restore what was lost.” She moves her hand gracefully through the air, and something changes within me.
I fall to my knees, buried beneath an avalanche of memories. Hundreds of years are returned to me in a dizzying eyeblink.
I know who I am.
And I know what brought me back to my world to search for one of the lost sorceresses. All the secret jealousies that festered standing in the shadow of my brother, the rage when he turned his back on our people. The gnawing guilt about abandoning my ancestral home. The loss of my wife and daughter. I flinch away from that memory, not ready to confront it. I had poured all my being into ensuring the survival of my tribe. In doing so, ice had grown over my soul. My only desire had been to save the last of the Silvers, no matter what the cost.
The compassion in the golden woman’s smile is like a beacon guiding me out of a storm. I draw in a shuddering breath.
“You are whole once more, Alesk,” she says softly. “You now remember what I told you before. Why what I have done is justified.” Her gaze moves to my companions. “But they do not.” She pauses for a moment, spreading her arms wide to encompass everything around us. “We stand here in the ruin of the Maker, children. In the beginning, he stepped from the Place Beyond and set to fashioning what became our reality. He desired to create, to escape the empty eternity of his existence. He shaped a thousand worlds, and in them kindled life. To some, He gave the gift of consciousness, and the freedom to choose their own paths in the universe. When He finished, He drew back and observed what He had wrought.”
The sorrow in the woman’s voice is palpable. With a golden finger she brushes a glimmering tear away.
“And He was distraught. He discovered His creation was flawed. The ones He had infused with his own divine spark were not content. They hungered for what others possessed, they spilled the blood of their enemies and their kin. The weak were subjugated to the strong. Pestilence and hunger stalked when He had given them worlds with more than enough for all.
“From His grief emerged a thought. The idea that His mistake could be corrected. It had been wrong to seed a thousand worlds and allow His children the freedom to choose their fate. He knew now that the life He created could not be trusted with this most dangerous of gifts. In the recesses of His mind a plan emerged.” The golden woman bows her head, silver hair obscuring her face. “I am that plan. I am all that remains of the Maker. He could not bring himself to watch what must be done, and so He passed from existence into oblivion. The only fragment that remained was me.” She lifts her head again. “My burden is great, but I was created to carry it. I must end the endless cycle of suffering in this creation. The creatures you know as the Shriven are my tools. A terrible scourge, but once they sweep over a world its pain is finished.
“But that is not the end!” she cries passionately. “No, for if it was, I would truly be a monster. My purpose is not to destroy the Maker’s creation. It is to preserve it. From each of the worlds some are chosen, and for their help in realizing my great work they are offered a place here, in paradise. In this garden, death is banished. There are no tyrants. No disease. No monsters lurking in the darkness. Freedom has been withdrawn, in exchange for an eternity without want or danger.” Her silver gaze envelops me. “That is what I offered you, Alesk. And you accepted my bargain.”
“Why not simply bring the chosen here?” I ask, my mouth dry. “Why destroy their worlds?”
The woman smiles sadly. “You posed the same question the last time you stood before me. It is because this reality is slowly unraveling. With the Maker gone the vitality that sustains everything is ebbing away. I am gathering all that remains into this world, so that it may hold out the longest against the inevitable dark. Ten million years instead of ten thousand.”
Slowly, I push myself back to my feet. I now understand why I agreed to serve the Mother. With my memories returned, my actions finally make sense. And I know what I must do.
The woman spreads her arms wide to embrace me as I step closer.
With one smooth motion, I draw my sword and plunge it into her chest.
No blood spills forth, but she crumples without a sound. I slide my blade free as she falls. I watch as the light fades in her lustrous silver eyes, and from her lips issues some final whisper I cannot hear.
She’s dead.
I turn away from her corpse to find my companions blinking and shaking their heads, as if emerging from a dream.
“What happened?” Bell rasps.
“She asked me to help her. I refused.”
“I was worried you would not,” the scientist’s daughter says, nervously edging closer to the sprawled woman.
“You shouldn’t have been,” I say quietly. Before, I had been broken. But the wounds in my soul have been healed by what I’ve found since I’d was reborn upon the red wastes. By these women.
“Talin,” Deliah says, and there’s something in her voice that sharpens my attention. She is still beside the serpent’s skull, staring down at the floor. I hurry over to see what is happening below.
“Damn,” I mutter when I find that the milling horde of Scythes have not fled or perished with the death of their Moth
er. Rather, the Shriven are now moving with purpose, streaming onto the serpent’s skeleton as they charge up the spine. They still appear to be united under a singular will.
A scream from behind me, cut short. I whirl around to see Valyra shuddering in pain, but these spasms vanish with unnatural swiftness. Then she turns towards us, silver light spilling from her eyes. Something is wrapped around the weaver’s ankle, a glistening tendril that stretches from the mound of vein-threaded brain tissue.
“Fool,” Valyra snarls, but it is not her voice anymore. “You are not worthy of the gifts I would bestow. Your people shall be denied my paradise.”
“Kill her again,” Deliah says with unnatural calmness. “But try and save the girl. I’ll keep the demons at bay.” The lamias whirls her glaive and leaps atop the serpent’s skull. I glance down and a coldness fills me as I see that the first Shriven are already halfway here, racing up the spine like wolves closing on helpless prey.
But Deliah is not helpless.
I charge towards the possessed weaver. I don’t want to hurt Valyra, but maybe I can knock her unconscious and then sever the tendril that seems to have corrupted her. I gather myself and leap as she raises her hand.
Strands of crimson energy erupt from her fingers; I start to swing my sword as the power envelops me, but the hilt is torn from my grasp, my momentum brutally arrested.
Pain.
I’m flat on my back, my head ringing. I feel like I’ve just run headfirst into a stone wall. My ribs ache and my face is burning.
“Ng,” I moan, struggling to sit up, but something incredibly heavy is sitting on my chest. Through bleary eyes I can see that the bands of crimson energy have wrapped around me, shifting like the coils of a great snake as they begin to constrict. One of my arms is free but the other is pinned tightly to my side; I twist my head and find that my sword is a few span beyond the reach of my fingers. Ignoring the crushing agony, I scrabble to grasp the pommel, but it’s too far away.
