The Beauty of Our Weapons

by Jilly Paddock

  “You wonder how we shall cross the abyss?” The manticore guessed.

  “Obviously there is a way—unless we fly over?”

  “There is a charm laid on the pit to protect the fortress. If I tried to fly over it my wings would fracture and tear, and I would fall to my death. If you were to attempt the crossing, by levitation or teleportation, you would be stripped of your powers and suffer the same fate. I would suggest that you don’t test the truth of my words.” It gestured with one wingtip. “Of course there is another way.”

  A breeze sighed up from the chasm, bearing with it a soft, tinkling sound. For a minute I didn’t appreciate what was happening, then a few of the tiny crystals of glass caught the light. There were millions of them, none more than half an inch across, cubes, tetrahedra and rhomboids pirouetting in delicate, chiming spirals, vying with each other for position. As I watched, they melded into a solid mass and a bridge was there, two paces wide and two finger-breadths thick, curving daintily over the dark abyss. The fragile creation pulled rainbows out of the air, humming softly in the vestige of breeze that had called it into being.

  “Our road to Crystallia.” Ahriman shuffled across, moving like a tightrope walker on the narrow span. As it reached the centre, it realised I wasn’t following and corkscrewed its head around without shifting its clawed feet. “Come now, my lady. Are you afraid to cross this pretty bridge?”

  “If it holds up your ugly bulk what have I to fear?” I stepped onto the arch and felt it shiver beneath me. My bare feet seemed to sink into its surface, which was fluid and gelatinous against my skin, and not at all like shards of glass. We crossed to the far side of the pit and the faerie bridge sighed at our passing. Where the demon placed its paws the crystals throbbed in disharmony, with frequencies that troubled my ears. I followed the scorpion-tail of the manticore and under my own feet the fragments sang, a sweet but mournful melody with an upper range of ultrasonics that thrummed like laughter through my skull. I wasn’t at ease until I was back on solid rock. Ahriman uttered a word that was part-hiss, part-shriek, and the bridge dissolved, whirling down into the abyss, a diamante snowstorm.

  “This way, my lady.” My guardian monster ducked under the gateway. “It isn’t far now.”

  The inner curve of the arch was carved in a complex spiral design that made me think of the pattern on the Wish-stone, and the corridor beyond was another work of art. Here the crystal was intact and the ornament more intricate. I’d anticipated that the glass would be transparent, but at the heart of each wall was a translucent veneer of coloured stone; here, at the entrance, the pallid blue of aquamarine, darkening to deepest sapphire as we ventured further into the fortress. Ahriman took a side passage of rose quartz that intensified to ruby, then another way that was topaz yellow shading down to the dull mustard hue of tiger’s eye. I followed, eyes dazzled by the heart-aching beauty of the place, the ice-smooth floor warm and silent under my feet. Even Ahriman’s scaly paws made little noise, although its claws clacked against the unyielding hardness.

  Finally the maze of jewelled corridors came to an end, disgorging us into an oval chamber. Here the walls were silvered, acting as a dull mirror, which reflected my guide as a mass of disquieting scarlet and black, and myself as a blue and gold butterfly, a fluttering captive in a cruel net. The overlaying crystal was spun into ever more flamboyant shapes, abstract protruberances that appeared to be cherub-faces or human hands when viewed from obscure angles. To my right was a sculpted basin into which clear water flowed from a dolphin-masked fountain; the soft chuckle of falling water echoed about the room, and the spring was so fresh that I could almost smell the water. In the opposite wall was a niche containing a small statuette, a spread-winged eagle fashioned out of polished jet. The focal point of the room was a lofty pair of doors, gilded wood secured by an immense iron bar. Over the lintel were runes, picked out in dull crimson pigment, and as I looked at them they writhed into new forms so that I might read them.

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Zenni read with me. The imagined inscription on the gates of hell.

  Our host has a macabre sense of humour. Oddly enough, this room held an air of great peace, calming my fears rather than multiplying them.

  Ahriman seized the bar in its foul jaws and drew it back, the metal moving reluctantly and screeching in protest at the disturbance. Once it was clear, the demon hauled one of the great doors ajar.

  “This is as far as I may guide you.” The monster grinned malevolently. “My Master awaits you within. Enter, my lady, and embrace your destiny. I wish you a swift death!”

  I drew myself up to my full height, absently patting the tissue drapery of my robe into place, then stalked past the manticore with utter contempt, ignoring its taunts. I took three paces into the room, then froze in awe.

  This was the heart-chamber of the palace, an echo of the magician’s sanctum in shape, octagonal and domed, the crystal walls inlaid with obsidian to give absolute privacy to its occupants. The ceiling was an extravaganza of exquisitely-wrought glass, spun out as fragile as spider-silk, woven into delicate webs and hung with blown teardrops. Eight black spiral candles, each as wide as my hand, sat in glass sconces, their soft amber light birthing many-coloured firestorms in the vitreous wonder of the dome. The floor was of night-black marble, cold and slippery underfoot, reflecting the overhead play of rainbows.

  Behind me, Ahriman pushed the door to with a triumphant crash and I heard it laugh as the bar scraped back into place. We were trapped in the lair of whatever evil had lured us here, imprisoned in an empty chamber.

  Chapter Fourteen: The Lord of Lies

  What happens now? I asked silently. Do we wait at the whim of the demon’s master?

  Apparently so.

  The marble floor’s coldness leached upwards from my feet, making me shiver. We’ve come a long way and then some for this audience. I hope it’s worth it.

  You have to admit that the setting is impressive.

  I paced slowly around the circumference of the chamber. Apart from the gilded doors, the place was featureless and cold. Where I touched the wall’s glossy surface my fingertips left distinct prints, which dissolved in a matter of seconds. Look at this! There must be some enchantment on the place to keep it clean. It’s immaculate. There isn’t a trace of dust.

  “I should hope not!” The voice made me jump for all that it was low and gentle. “If I have a fault, it’s that I’m an utter perfectionist. I make no apology for the fact that I’m frightfully houseproud.”

  There had been no hint of an arrival and yet something had materialised in the chamber, something wondrous and terrible, far worse to look on than Ahriman. My heart skipped a beat. I froze to the spot, trapped by instant, mindless terror, nightmare crossed over into the waking world. The link turned to a spear of ice in the back of my skull and Zenni moaned, adrift in my fear.

  The demon’s master stood in the centre of the chamber. From the waist down it was human, shapely, well-proportioned, with skin blacker than midnight, its feet bare and possessing six toes. It wore a pleated linen kilt, stark white against that skin, surmounted by a golden fish-scale belt. Above that everything began to go awry; its torso was misshapen and covered in thick black hair, and in place of arms it had oddly-jointed forelegs ending in cloven hooves. I had a nasty suspicion and raised my eyes to confirm it—yes, the fiend did indeed have a goat’s head, the glossy pelt of which was black, crowned by a great pair of curved horns, burnished gold and tipped with cones of ruby. A pair of amber eyes with the disturbing oblong pupils of goatkind surveyed me with kindly interest and its ovine muzzle split in a bestial grin. The scent of the apparition suffused the room, not foul like the manticore, just a pleasant mix of sandalwood and musk.

  The sum total of its appearance was comely, yet the symbol of part-goat, part-human was so tightly enmeshed with the notion of evil in my Earth-conditioned subconscious that I was paralysed with fear. Zenni’s logic helped to some extent, but he too was a
creature of Earth, with access to all of its superstition and mythology. The archdemon’s aura was a dark swirling pall of unguessable power and I was certain that we now faced what had spoken through Ahriman. In the flesh the essence of evil seemed easier to bear, like an overpowering stench that dulls the nose and passes beyond the threshold of awareness. The fiend allowed me time to study it, waiting with magnanimous patience until I’d finished.

  “What do you think of my castle?” the demon lord asked. “This fortress is the last relic of a race that were old when your own people were barely contemplating the possibility of descent from the trees. It would have fallen into dust centuries ago had I not found it. Some quality of its lonely grandeur spoke to me and I knew I must make it my home. I bought it with a pact of blood and tears, and still expend a great deal of effort to keep it in this state of preservation. Alas, even all of my attention isn’t enough to keep it from the ravages of time! Tell me, my dear, do you like the palace of Crystallia?”

  I found a wisp of voice. “It’s lovely.”

  Those goat eyes looked into my heart, filling with a smile as they saw I told the truth. “Let me tell you of its genesis; Tambou legend tells that a madness fell upon the eldest of the djinn, a madness so strong that he did a forbidden thing—he fell in love with a star-maiden. With a diadem made of faerie-gold and fire-opal he coaxed her down from the sky, then he wooed her, wed her and built this treasure for her dwelling. She came to love him in return, although such passions are fleeting in her kind, and when she danced through the ways of the castle, her joy lit Crystallia like a lamp.”

  Something in the lilt of his voice reminded me of SantDenis sharing folk-tales over breakfast. Fixing on the familiar eased my terror and loosened my tongue. “And did they live happily ever after?”

  “Alas, no. The djinn died by the hand of his younger brother, who envied his kingdom and his bride. And as for the star-may, although her kind are immortal, she died of sorrow. Her bones lie beneath the rune-stone. Eternity knows no happy endings.” The capricorn-mask scowled. “What mishap damaged your arm?”

  “I was attacked—”

  “By Nansi’s taribeor? Unpleasant creatures, stupid and unpretty—such fitting pets for a skulker in the dark. Did you kill them?”

  “Yes, and it’s a crime I don’t regret in the slightest.”

  “I don’t count it a crime.” He flicked one hoof in a negligent gesture and a purple numbus flared over my forearm. I wanted no part in the transaction, but had little choice as the warm flush of healing crawled across my skin. “Now, remove the bandage.”

  The skin was intact, the pain gone. The bloodstained cloth fell from my fingers, vanishing before it hit the floor. “Who are you?”

  “Who do you think I am?” Those yellow, unsettling eyes glittered. The question had been flippant and the tone light, yet the intensity behind it shook me to the bone. I took a hurried step back and would have taken more but for the wall. Deprived of a retreat, I began to tremble.

  “I have many names.” The demon lord prompted. “You used one of them when we first met.”

  “What do they call you on Earth?” I demanded, through chattering teeth. “The Devil himself?”

  “Not to my face!” The fiend chuckled heartily. “As I say, I own many names, but you may call me Druj. You, of course, are the incomparable Anna-Marie Delany, once a humble holo-actress and now the prime psionic agent-pair of Earth Intelligence, with your partner Zenith Alpha 4013, whom you call Zenni. I think those are all the introductions we require at this point.”

  “You’re certainly well informed!” I echoed Zenni’s shock; very few souls knew his pet name. “I thought it was the prerogative of God to be omniscient?”

  The goat-head smiled; I half-expected it to bleat. “Gods and demons are shades of the same colour—identical beasts, merely viewed differently.”

  “There’s a difference between good and evil.”

  Druj’s smile died. “Is there, my dear? You must be naive if you still believe that, but then it’s the curse of mortals to forget all of the great truths.”

  His arrogance was insufferable, eating away at my awe. “I know the one about death and taxes. Are there any others?”

  “There are five great truths. Let me tell you one of them; death is but an illusion, yet all illusions are real.”

  “Gee, thanks!” I placed my hands palm together and dipped in a scornful bow. “I suppose that puts me on the fast-track to enlightenment?”

  “I preferred you as Caron—you certainly have a temper to match her hair!” His tone was drier than ashes, laced with a frisson of menace. “It seems that my guise disturbs you. I can alter my looks if that would make our dealings simpler?”

  “It might, but don’t put yourself out just for me.”

  “Nothing is too much trouble for such a lovely guest.” His form blurred at the edges, the amber eyes shifting to piercing ice-blue, set in my dead father’s face. Druj duplicated Lewis exactly, every detail of his stance and expression, down to his customary immaculate dark suit. The arch-fiend had stolen the image from the depths of my memory, a young version of my father, the man I recalled from childhood. At the sight of him my fear was purged, and I barely held back from hitting the beast.

  That’s so cruel, Zenni said softly. He means to hurt you—don’t let him.

  “Stop playing with me, demon!” I hissed. “You don’t have to resort to such a cheap trick—it’s childish and stupid! If all you want to do is kill me, then do it now! What’s the bloody point of delaying the end?”

  Druj shapeshifted again and a young man faced me. He might have been the inspiration for Draoi, although it was plain that the magician was a flawed copy. Ivory skin that any woman would have killed for, over a classic face, fine-boned, oval, perfect; raven-black hair, as glossy as polished jet, soft and long for a man, cropped neatly at his shoulders, the picture completed by lilac eyes, intense and disquieting. For dress he had chosen another suit, a crisp linen number in an archaic Pre-Dark style, the formal effect of which was ruined by a dull purple silk shirt left casually open at the neck to display a heavy byzantine gold chain, and as a final affectation, a tiny lover’s-knot of violets in his buttonhole.

  He gestured with a faultlessly-manicured artist’s hand, and a round table grew out of the centre of the room, complete with two chairs and a canvas sunshade, the kind of ensemble you might find on a terrace. A velvet lawn sprang up beneath my feet and an impossible ultramarine rose twined up a materialised trellis. To augment the illusion, a warm summer’s breeze tickled my nose with the scent of lavender and freshly-cut grass, and an invisible thrush sang its heart out in a non-existent tree.

  “Do sit down.” The archdevil invited, all cordiality. “Now tell me, Anna-Marie, whatever gave you the idea that I wished to harm you?”

  I accepted the nearest chair, perching on its edge. “Your slave, Ahriman, implied that you intend my death. I expect nothing less from a being as evil as you.”

  “Evil?” Druj turned aside and plucked a rose before joining me at the table. He offered me the cobalt bloom and I saw that one of its knife-edged thorns had pierced his thumb, although he gave no sign of noticing the injury. I shook my head, knowing it was foolish to accept any gift from one such as he, and he laid the rose aside. A tiny bead of blood hung on the thorn, not crimson but inhuman, bright scarlet laced with gold. “How can you judge me so harshly? When have I shown you evil?”

  “You sent Ahriman to kill me!” I accused.

  “And are you dead?” He smiled, his beauty twisting like a sword in my heart. “Do I speak with a ghost? I called my servant back because you deserved better than death at its hands. To find a mortal who can walk the paths of fear to the very lip of the abyss, only to find defiance there and turn to make a stand—you’ve a rare inner strength, my dear, and that interests me. I mean you no harm, I swear it.”

  I laughed tightly. “Just what would a demon swear on?”

  “My blood.�
�� Those ancient, innocent purple eyes glanced down at the rose. “My flesh. My soul. Is that a puissant enough oath for you?”

  “No.” I flushed under his stare. “I don’t trust you!”

  “Honest as well as wise.” The demon lord lifted a finger and a silver jug appeared, in the company of two crystal goblets and a salver of bite-sized delicacies. “Will you take wine and eat with me?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Do you fear that I’ll poison you, or perhaps bewitch you with ensorcelled food and drink? I couldn’t be such an ungracious host. My race were ever renowned for the splendour of their hospitality.” He leaned towards me and I was enveloped in the warm scent of him, sweet, spicy and arousing. “Perhaps a different wine, or maybe a fruit nectar or an Earth beverage like coffee would please you more? Or another type of sweetmeat?”

  The ambiguity in that last question was obvious. “I don’t care for any refreshment at the moment.”

  “I won’t take a refusal. You shall have anything you like.” Again I picked up the overt sexuality of his offer. “Only name your desire!”

  “My Lord Demon, you tempt me!” I warmed to the spirit of the game, aware of the ease with with he manipulated my emotions and puzzled that he made no attempt to twist my thoughts. “What woman could refuse such a prize?”

  “Apparently one called Anna-Marie Delany!” Even his scowl was a delight, then his mood flipped over to joy and he laughed aloud. “Very good—I’m impressed! I think you just tipped the points in your favour, my dear girl!”