by T J Marquis
The shard rumbled impatiently. “There is no master but he whom you choose to bow before. We will equivocate no further. The power is yours. Do with it what you will.”
The structure around him shuddered, and Malok was overwhelmed by a sensation beyond any he’d ever experienced. More intoxicating than a shaman’s tinctures, more electric than fear, heavier than mourning, swirls of the purple mist seeped into his pores, pricking every nerve painfully as it took up residence in his body.
An instant passed, the pyramid around him looked a little dimmer than before, and the voice was silent.
“Spirit?” Malok said hoarsely. The shard of Command did not respond.
The only way out was that pool of black water. He hated to get his gear wet, but it was unavoidable. Malok dove into the murky pool and swam blindly forward into a flooded chute, trying to feel a path out by tracing the Crystal’s surface above his head. Shortly he emerged from still waters into the low, cold waves of the sea. He swam upwards and broke the surface.
The Crystal pyramid loomed large from here, standing several stories above the waves. Was the shard’s base on the ocean floor? Or was it somehow floating in the water? Purple mist crept into the air from its surface and seemed to evaporate into the night.
Malok had only just caught his breath when the Assassin appeared above him.
“What happened?” it hissed, studying the purple shard. “Where were you? How did you hide from me?” Malok could tell it desired to kill him for this interruption.
Still reeling from the experience, he mumbled, “I hardly know how to explain it.”
The Assassin snarled, “You will…”
Malok felt foolish and lost, soaked and floating in the sea’s dark waters.
“Just let me think a moment!” He cut the creature off sharply.
The Assassin flinched and relented, hovering away a few yards.
“You smell different,” it said. “But come, one does not keep the master waiting.”
“Yes, let’s go,” Malok said. “I’ll try to explain to your master.”
Back in the Assassin’s grasp, Malok was ushered through the winds, across Yamlayla, and over the cracked and barren hills of the land around the Doom. Some of the generals had been here once or twice, and some of the various creatures in the dark man’s service who were more than just foot soldiers, but all in all, very few had laid eyes on these lands before. The Assassin brought them to a stop in front of the old fortress. For a moment there was a wave of intense heat. Malok’s skin crawled as the creature wrapped some of its dark power around him like a cloak, and he felt the heat no more.
“It will keep you alive,” the shadow creature said, but did not explain.
The Doom of Man, so named by worshipful Nulians, had the form of a gigantic, twisted hand. The hand’s wrist formed the fortress’s upper levels, reaching thousands of feet into the air. Its long black fingers were wrapped around an unnatural mass whose dark grey surface shifted about like liquid. Its weight rested on the five massive fingertips. Diminutive hills of cracked earth stretched to every horizon, charred by the strange energy of the fortress, or that grey mountain, or both. The earth at the mountain’s base had been melted into bubbling magma.
Though he had never been the sentimental type, Malok felt a pang of regret as he called to mind the vision of these lands that the shard of Command had just shown him. It had been a place of beauty before the dark man’s coming.
“We walk from here,” said the Assassin. “External defenses preclude swifter forms of travel.”
The surface of the Doom was dotted with portholes and landings with heavy gates shut tight. One such gate, where the Doom’s mighty thumb pierced the earth, was their destination. Its large doors were armored with thick plates of matte black material. Little light reflected off that… metal? The edges of each facet were hard to resolve.
A round protrusion above the gate flickered with blue light, illuminating the Assassin and Malok for an instant. The gate slid open, and they were admitted into a small room with an identical gate at the other end. The first gate closed, another blue light flicked across their faces, and the second gate slid up to reveal an open-topped chamber at the bottom of a long, vertical shaft. Malok tensed as the gate closed and the chamber shuddered into upward motion, his stomach lurching in response. It growled - he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
A rising hum accompanied their acceleration, then grew steady as they traveled. The Assassin said nothing about their destination, and Malok knew better than to ask. He wondered how high up the structure they were as they climbed deck after deck, gates flying past in a blur. At last the lift came to a stop, a flat voice announced something in a foreign language, and the gate before them opened to reveal a long hallway. Dozens of doors lined the hall on either side, all of them shut tight against intrusion.
“You should have eaten before we left,” the Assassin commented as they exited the lift. “I sense your hunger - it is pitiful.” The creature did not offer to stop off for a snack.
Their path led through various intersecting hallways that Malok had a hard time differentiating. Some were open to vast decks above and below, others were claustrophobic, especially to an ogre giant. Everything, from catwalks and railings, to rounded conduits, to the plating on every wall, was made of the same matte black material. Malok would have thought a structure of such density, every surface heavily armored, would have been utterly sound-proof, but he swore he heard the occasional screams and wails of pain through the shut doors and dark walls. Though he was no stranger to battle, he’d never had a taste for torture, and the hidden voices raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
At last their path ended in a roundabout hall with a large, circular chamber at its center. With another blue flicker of light they were admitted to a room that lay in stark contrast to the rest of the Doom thus far.
The floor of the room had been inlaid with reddish, polished wood from end to end. A long, curved dais ran from the far end of the room to the near side, and held raised planters sporting a variety of flowers and herbs. Through the center of the little hydroponic garden flowed a thin stream of clean water that had its source in a black fountain at its far end. Malok could not see where the light for these plants came from. Two figures populated the room. One worked in the garden - a lanky man of reddish skin and loose grey hair who tended his plants with diligent care, touching each one in various places to no apparent end.
The other stood gazing into the gently flowing fountain. He was the more imposing one, with charcoal skin like the Assassin’s and a stature to match the ogre’s. Even in what appeared to be a state of calmness, little arcs of bluish lightning crawled restlessly across the surface of his skin. His face was broad and angular, with deeply recessed eyes of indeterminate color. Thick black hair crowned his head and framed his face, and his expression was somber. Malok had never expected to meet his own god in the flesh, and yet he did not kneel.
The Assassin said a word or a name that Malok could not understand, and the two men looked up. The red man immediately returned to tending his garden.
“I have brought the one you asked for,” said the Assassin. He also showed no deference to either the dark man or the red one.
The dark man released a long breath in the direction of the fountain, then moved around it to approach his visitors. “Commander, have you no worship for your god?” His voice was calm and low. There was no malice in his question.
Yet something prevented Malok from kneeling. He knew he should, but could not make his knees to bend.
The dark man did not press the issue, but addressed his Assassin. “You’ve been gone a while, my shadow. Did your passion lead you on unseemly paths?”
“My time apart is my own,” the Assassin hissed. “I attempted what you ordered, but the guardian restrained me.”
“And since when have my orders brooked any excuse? You have failed, and thus our challenges persist.” His tone remained even, cool
as a dewy stone on a spring morning. “Come, join me.”
The Assassin tensed, but did not resist. It approached the dark man, stepping closer than Malok would have considered comfortable or even proper, and then began to merge with him. The dark man’s stature increased as he absorbed the Assassin’s mass, and the irises of his eyes gained a halo of red. The dark man heaved a deep breath, as if relishing the effects of this strange absorption. Malok couldn’t say why, but suddenly he wanted to run.
“You,” the dark man’s voice had taken on a sharper tone, “kneel.” He did not hiss as the Assassin would have done, but his voice had lost its coolness.
Malok marvelled at himself as he hesitated to obey, but knelt at last - he had no wish to die this day.
The dark man began to pace around the room.
“Do you like my fortress?” he asked, calm again now that his demand had been sated. “Few have been invited, and all others found only death in the black hills below.”
“I am honored to be in attendance of the only Dark One,” Malok said. It had been true before he left Enkann.
“Is that what they call me lately?” the old god said with derision. “I always hated that you people cannot pronounce my name. Perhaps you can bring the others a better description of me when you return. Am I not more than darkness?” he asked. Malok searched for an answer but found nothing. “Yea, I am more than light,” he might have been speaking to himself, for he did not spare even a glance for the ogre.
“You claim my attribute while denying my inclusion?” the red man chimed in. His voice was youthful, though still a basso.
“Inclusion he says,” the dark man scoffed. “So you can pull me off track with every little whim of imagination you suffer? The time for such things is ages past.” He fairly whispered this last, “All that matters now is blood.”
With every moment, Malok was becoming more convinced that his god was mad. His presence emanated an aura of wild danger, and his thoughts seemed scattered, incomprehensible. This was far from what he’d expected of the being his people gave allegiance to.
“But I do need you today, Creator” the dark man admitted. “Come, let us inspect this lesser creature together.”
Malok prickled at the insult, but held his tongue. Better to keep it in his mouth than go about as a slave, or worse, to die. And perhaps there was pain deeper than death in store, somewhere in this dark citadel.
The Creator stood reluctantly from his garden, sparing his plants a wistful look. He dusted off his red hands and cracked his knuckles. He took long strides to join the dark man at the other end of the room, and merged with him as the Assassin had done. Their combined mass inflated their stature even further, and the dark man’s charcoal skin gained a rusty tint. Some of his hair turned completely grey, and the wyrms of lighting that writhed across his skin now shone violet. Witnessing this second absorption, something about it seemed grotesque to Malok, and he shuddered involuntarily. When the dark man spoke again, his voice sounded a little lighter.
“Stand, Commander, let us glean what we can from you of this little white wizard. “
Malok was relieved to stand. Worshipping this man no longer seemed… right.
The huge dark man, now a head or more taller than Malok himself, came much too close and lay a massive hand on the ogre’s chest plate. His scent of ozone burned in Malok’s nostrils much stronger than even the Assassin’s had. The ogre’s discomfort mounted as the dark man probed his round belly where the wizard had struck him. Even through his armor, the touch felt paradoxically cold and hot, to the point of nausea. The dark man held Malok’s head still in impossibly strong hands, peering deep into the ogre’s eyes. His red-rimmed pupils contracted tightly, and his gaze was steady as subterranean darkness.
Malok blinked, and the dark man released him, turning away. He moved to his black fountain and leaned on its rim, staring again into its clear waters.
“That wizard’s will is strong,” the dark man muttered, “but his skill is like that of a toddling fairy. It is the power of a god in the hands of a child. The Assassin was right to desire his immediate death. But what of the guardian? If we return before the wizard grows, he may even deign to eradicate us.” The dark man spun toward Malok, eyes suddenly wild.
“But you…” he said, and strode closer. “What is that gift within you? I see it, a cloud of violet not unlike this strain that I carry. Who gave you this?” he bellowed, voice shaking the round room. Malok instinctively adopted a defensive stance.
“Will you try to control me with it! Lay your life down before me then, and attempt it!” he was in the Commander’s face now, cold spittle flying with every enraged syllable. “But you are not so foolish,” he backed off and turned away again, “and you would not be worthy of the gift, had you no desire to be free of my yoke.” The dark man took a moment to catch his breath.
“I name you Commander in Chief of the Nulian army,” he breathed. “The Creator will give you my seal, and a worthy blade from the armory. Armor, too, if you wish. Have you need of wealth? Pick a city of the decapolis, and all its taxes shall be credited to you. The army shall follow your every command, for I have long been aware that your diligence and skill far outpace that of your peers. Do you now feel sufficiently honored?”
Malok gave no answer - he couldn’t keep up with the dark man’s shifting demeanors.
“Go, then, and raze Centrifuge for me. If that white wizard accosts you, destroy him, giving no thought to retreat. If you do this for me, all you desire shall be yours. The Creator shall see to that. You are dismissed.”
The Creator reemerged from the dark man’s body, lessening his stature by a few degrees. He sauntered over to Malok and put a warm hand on his arm. The ogre flinched.
“Peace, Commander, our council is ended. Let us leave, before his ire mounts again.” The Creator’s calm tone was actually soothing, and Malok was all too happy to turn away and leave that mad god behind.
Chapter 14
The Throne
There was seemingly nothing so simple as the ziri for the group to take as vehicular booty from their trek through the Maw. Everything else they’d seen was either a military vehicle - armed for battle, with a myriad of controls and incomprehensible labels - or the few remaining barges. Jon was tempted greatly to load a few crates of weapons onto one of the barges left behind by the Nulians, but knowing the bulk of their army was encamped just beyond the horizon gave him pause.
“Those things are the size of a football field,” he said as the party conferred on the platform at the Maw’s exit. It was a bright, blue morning, already hot enough to draw sweat in the shade. “If the Nulians are marching north, their scouts might see it coming down the mountainside and come after us. We shouldn’t waste time on a confrontation.”
No one else knew what football was, but they got the picture. The compact hoverbikes would be their best, and fastest bet, at getting ahead of the enemy’s march.
“I’m still wondering why they didn’t clean this place out completely,” Naphte said as the group prepared to mount up and head down the mountain.
“Well it looked like they were trying to make a second pass at it as they retreated,” Dahm said. “Maybe the plan was to bring the rest of the loot down in shipments.”
“So they might be back,” Bahabe said, “Unless they’re afraid of the guardian.” Her eyes were still dark, but Jon sensed the night’s sleep had done her some good.
Jon had related his encounter to everyone over breakfast that morning, and they were duly impressed by his descriptions of Jeremiah. They too wondered about the strange shadow creature the guardian had apparently been restraining. He’d thought perhaps it was the dark man that Jeremiah had described, but the guardian had spoken of the Nulians’ god as a distant thing. Still, the memory of the creature sent a chill up Jon’s spine.
As the others finished packing up their bedrolls, Jon caught sight of Dahm, studying the Path through the Maw. He was testing the surface wit
h his fingers, and then he dipped them into it, as if it were liquid.
“Whoa,” Jon said.
Dahm glanced up. “I suppose it would be surprising, if you haven’t done it before. It’s a peculiar substance, almost like it’s living metal!”
“Sounds like a band name,” Jon said.
“What?” Dahm asked.
“Nevermind. So you’re going to make something out of it?”
“Well yes. All the places I’ve been, I’ve never seen the like of it. I thought it would be perfect for a new sword. I’m almost completely sure I can sample some, without breaking the integrity of the whole machine,” Dahm said.
He reached his hands in to the wrists, and scooped out the metal as if it were clay. Two small craters were left behind. He swiftly shaped the strange metal into a blade and simple hilt, grinned as he presented it to Jon, who was in awe of Dahm’s speed with the magic.
When all was ready, and everyone had agreed they needed nothing more from the Maw, Dahm reached into its hidden circuitry with his senses and triggered the door to close. It was surreal, watching the portal close not by sliding or falling into place, but simply fading into existence.
As on the western slopes of the mountains, any evidence of a trail leading down had been wiped away by rockslides and the growth of scrub. Mounting their ziri, they once again had to take it slow, searching out natural switchbacks and ravines wide enough to accommodate the vehicles. All along the way Jon kept an eagle’s eye on the plains below, but all he could see was the dust of the Nulian march, just over the horizon. He thought it was a good sign there was dust. That must mean the army was traveling on the ground and not by air.
It was a huge relief to gain the foothills again, where they could let out their throttles a little, and the air of their movement provided a blessed cooling breeze. Though still hot, the climate in these hills and valleys was less arid, and the greens of scrub and trees dappled the landscape. Clearing the hill country just before lunch, they made an early stop in a flat-bottomed valley where a narrow river wound down from the north. They’d seen from higher up that this valley let out into the dry plains to the east. From there they would turn somewhat northward and make a b-line for Centrifuge.
