Istu Awakened

by Robert E Vardeman;Victor Milan

  'Not so, cousin. Pity, perhaps. Pity without understanding. You never attempted to understand me. I who loved you hopelessly, from the time we were both children.' She turned red, her cheeks burning. He laughed. 'Yes, my attentions made you uncomfortable when we were both young. I always imagined it was a relief to you, what the Thailint did to me.'

  'No, never that!' She squeezed shut her eyes.

  'Synalon understood. We understand each other perfectly. She was neither gentle nor kind, but she understood.'

  Moriana sobbed brokenly, huddled in on herself, shaking. Erimenes looked from her to the prince.

  'A sad tale. Is this your justification for the evil you've wrought? Do I understand that you must torture innocent victims to death because you're not appreciated?'

  'You understand nothing, demon!' Rann shouted at him. He turned away in a swirl of his dark cloak and stared up the pass.

  There were voices in the dark, and they were laughing, laughing.

  Frantic in its fear and pain, the soul raced around the Skywell. It darted inward as if to cast itself through the Well. Istu reached, tweaked with a taloned thumb and forefinger. Its hues blazed up in yellow pain. It collapsed quivering on the pavement. Istu chuckled.

  'See here,' he said to the one standing silently, watching the Demon at his play. He prodded the prostrate soul with one black fingertip. 'The colors of a soul, stripped of obscuring flesh, reveal its nature. Here on the outside is the yellow of pretense. This green layer beneath is lust. Below that the pink of sloth, the turquoise of indecision, and so on.' The taloned finger sank into the midsection of the soul, which still twitched uncontrollably. 'And at the core, we find a pure white light. Interesting. And odd, considering who this was in life. So many of the souls we took at that place were hollow at the core.

  The night was chill with the promise of early autumn and lay heavy upon the People. Nothing stirred on the streets radiating from the Well of Winds. The Demon, his captive soul, and Zak'zar, Speaker of the People, seemed alone in the City.

  'Is it necessary to torment that soul so?' Zak'zar asked. 'You'll reap more in the weeks to come.'

  Istu prodded the soul again. It thrashed spastically, then lay still when the finger was withdrawn.

  'Why should you care?'

  'I knew this one in life.'

  Istu squatted on his haunches in unthinking imitation of the black basalt statue of him across the Well.

  'You seem fascinated by the pale, pink ones. Would you have me leave a few alive for you as pets?!'

  'I was chosen of all the generations of the People to become Speaker when the Instrumentality at last fulfilled his function and freed you to bring us vengeance and victory. I was chosen because I could deal with the pale ones and understand their ways.' He spread his hands in front of him, palms down. 'With understanding comes a certain sympathy. It troubles me that our victory means the eradication of the enemy ones.'

  'You are soft,' Istu sneered.

  'I merely appreciate that those soft-skinned folk have virtues of their own. The interest of the People is mine to safeguard; I deplore that we and the Soft Ones cannot coexist. We could learn from them.'

  'Is this why you insisted we accept the ludicrous entreaties of the Dwarves and those traitors from the Nevrym Forest, to ally ourselves with them? As if their pathetic efforts contributed anything of worth.' The great horned head shook, obliterating stars. 'And why couldn't I contemplate the destruction of those last three cities, as I did with Kara-Est? I was born to extinguish suns, mortal. I dislike staying my hand.'

  'We still have to complete the reduction of this continent,' said Zak'zar softly. 'And the world beyond that. Our victory is far from assured.'

  Istu swelled with rage, but Zak'zar carried on.

  'I requested that you spare the cities we took because many things have transpired in the world since you and my kind were forced from it. We may find knowledge that will ease our way to triumph. Or we may learn of a deadly threat in time to avert it.

  'As for accepting the Dwarves and Nevrymin as allies, why not? If they do our work for us, we will be victorious all the quicker. I fear that time presses.'

  'Why should that be? I am Istu, spawn of the Dark Ones. Doubt your own strength, if you will. Doubt not mine. The Pale Ones cannot stop me.'

  'And yet some of them are bound for Athalau,' said Zak'zar, 'and it was in Athalau that you found your downfall last time.'

  A bellow of rage rebounded from the starred dome of the sky. Istu grew to a black pillar of wrath, raising mountain-smashing fists high as he glared down at the small, small figure of Zak'zar.

  'No one slights the power of Istu!'

  'Pardon if I gave offense, Lord Istu. I only pointed out the truth. My abilities in this was another factor in the Dark Ones selecting me as Speaker.' At this reminder of Zak'zar's mandate from Powers greater even than his, the Demon subsided a little. 'I would remind you, great Istu, that the Dark Ones themselves agreed to the wisdom of my proposal to expedite the conquest of the Realm by making alliances with those foolish enough to think our victory might profit them. And likewise, They share my concern over efforts to reach Athalau. As you well know, They even take steps of Their own to counter the menace posed by the Nexus and the World Spirit.'

  'I wonder at that,' the Demon said sullenly. 'The Dark Ones have already broken Their faith with that woman once. Do They think They can dupe her again?'

  'In my study of the Pale Ones,' said Zak'zar, crossing his arms and nodding in concentration, 'I've found that humans are cursed with a thing called hope.'

  'When I was bound in the depths of the City, sometimes my thoughts turned to the prospect that once again I would know my world-destroying freedom. In a word, I hoped.' Istu shook his horned head. 'Well do you name it a curse.'

  'After all,' said Zak'zar, 'why do Fairspeaker and Mauna aid us so eagerly? Their minds should tell them the best they can win is a stay of execution. But hope tells them otherwise, and it's hope they listen to.'

  Istu's eyes flared bright yellow in the blackness of his face.

  'Verily does the black-haired witch hope in vain,' he thundered. 'I have not forgotten how she lured me forth to pain and humiliation. I shall cherish her soul within mine. And this I will give her: often, very often I will give her clothing of flesh to wear so that she may know my vengeance again. And the same for her fair-haired sister. I had but a taste of her and will have more.'

  'I thought you kept all your captive souls in the spirit jars in the warehouse.'

  'Most. Those are the subjects of my passing interest, like the ones I collected in High Medurim, like this miserable baggage here.' He nudged the soul with his foot. It huddled in on itself and shook. 'But there are those I would add to my permanent collection. Those two are among them.'

  'Even so,' Zak'zar bowed. 'I would ask a boon.'

  'Ask,' said Istu, waving a magnanimous claw. 'You are the Chosen of my progenitors.'

  'Release this soul and the one you keep next to it. I care little for the souls of the soft-skinned strangers, but these I knew. They deserve better.'

  'I will not,' said Istu, hunching his shoulders. 'They were the only ones of their kind. They are special items. I won't part with them. Not until they begin to bore me.'

  'As you will.' Zak'zar bowed again and glided away. Istu glowered after him. When the Speaker was gone, Istu gave the cringing soul another petulant kick, picked it up by the scruff and rammed it into its red clay jar. He placed the jug carefully in its spot among the others and went off to find his own repose.

  In the morning, he returned to gloat once more over his collection. What he saw made him shake his enormous head in disbelief. Anger flared nova-bright within him.

  Two jars that rested side by side containing the souls of Emperor Teom and his sister-wife Temalla had been smashed. The souls were flown to oblivion, unreclaimable. In his fury, Istu danced on the other jars, stamping them into powder beneath clawed feet. Invisible in the
sunlight, the freed souls swirled about his columnar legs and were gone.

  When the last jar was crushed and its spirit departed, the fit left Istu. He contemplated what he had done. He had a shrewd notion of the culprit responsible. He might have gone then and sought out the knave. Certainly, Istu could punish him in such a way that would make up for the diversion lost in the forms of bottled souls.

  Instead, Istu began to laugh. At the sound of his laughter, birds fell dead for miles around.

  'It is a grave thing you ask of me.' Each word came slow and heavy like the fall of mountains. 'I must think on it a while.'

  'Marvelous!' cried Erimenes. 'What's "a while," you immense fugitive from an icehouse? Until the sun goes out? Or merely next year?'

  'Tsk tsk,' said the glacier named Guardian. The boom of its voice hammered the sheer walls of the Gate of the Mountains bringing a fall of boulders thudding into the pass a few hundred yards behind the travellers. 'Were you not of the blessed kindred of Athalau, good Anemones, I should almost think you precipitous.'

  Erimenes emitted a squeal of rage and began tearing at the fringe of blue hair surrounding the base of his long, narrow head. The sentient glacier's inability - or refusal - to pronounce his name properly enraged him more than the living ice mountain's geological deliberations.

  Gloom filled the pass deepened by mist spilling down from the Guardian that formed a grayish layer thirty feet off the canyon floor. Light and warmth seldom penetrated here yet the cliff base was dotted with clumps of small blue flowers that seemed little daunted by the darkness and chill.

  The Rampart Mountains had a heart of cold stone; the rocks of the canyon were those Guardian had swept up into himself on his slow advance from the Southern Waste. They had been ground smooth within the glacier's body and eventually tumbled from the face as it rolled ever onward. In time, Guardian would swallow them anew to begin the cycle anew unless climatic conditions did not permit him to continue his involuntary progress along the narrow canyon.

  On one of those polished rocks sat Rann, apparently at ease. Watching him as she paced in front of the glacier, Moriana wondered at his outward calm. He didn't take frustration and delay philosophically; none of the Etuul blood ever had. Under normal conditions he should have been pacing even more vigorously than she. Instead he sat quiet and self-possessed.

  Moriana wondered what had gotten into her cousin. His demeanor made her doubt he intended treachery. But still, he was too calm.

  'Come and rest yourself, cousin,' he said, smiling. 'The glacier will take its own time answering. No amount of stalking to and fro will hurry it.'

  She paused, glaring at him more from reflex than anything else. She finally shrugged and seated herself on a rock not too near Rann's.

  'I cannot rightfully deny entry to you, Princess, nor to you Irimunas, for you are rightfully Athalar.' The words boomed out, making Moriana jump in surprise. Rann regarded her with calm indulgence. 'But to let so many folk in as you propose? I do not know.'

  As before when talking to Guardian, Moriana found herself straining as if this would hurry the words. But that trick of colossal energies released when the World Spirit was summoned by Felarod that had given the glacier life had not otherwise altered its nature. Guardian thought and spoke glacier-fashion. If anything, this speech was a breakneck babble by its standards.

  'I have been tricked before,' rumbled Guardian. 'A human named Rann told me he followed to aid you, when in fact he meant you harm and that pleasant, near-sighted fellow with you - Fost, by name.'

  'Why can't he remember my name?' grumbled Erimenes.

  'Yes, it was a mistake to let Rann into Athalau. His friends burned a hole through my back with a horrid fire sprite.' The ice face shuddered. A sheet of ice split from the glacier with a resounding crack and fell, showering Moriana and Rann with sharp fragments. 'It was worse than the ice worms who gnaw at me from within.'

  Rann yawned, stretched, stood.

  'Prince Rann is a very bad man,' he said. 'You should not judge the rest of us by what he did.'

  Another pause. Rann stood with arms crossed while Moriana paced.

  'You are right, human,' came back the answer in time, when the sun had begun to bulge from the top of the eastern cliff and burn away the mist. 'But still, so many. Would that not endanger Athalau?'

  'As I understand it,' Rann said, placing hands on hips, 'your task was to preserve the city from agents of the Dark Ones. The princess has told you the Zr'gsz have freed Istu and once more ravage the

  continent. Presently, they will turn their attentions this way.' 'All the more reason to guard my city with zeal.' 'My city, indeed,' grumbled Erimenes.

  'Not even one as vast and mighty as you can hope to resist Istu, Guardian,' said Rann. 'But you hold within you the means of defeating him. You hold the Nexus by which Felarod drew up the wrath of the World Spirit. We must reach the Nexus. The World Spirit is the only power great enough to help us.'

  The glacier sat in silence, save for the creakings and groanings from deep within as the sun heated the miles-wide expanse of its body. Eventually Rann sat back down. Moriana joined him. The cool cloud had ceased to stream down Guardian's face. It was fast becoming warm. Moriana dozed.

  'Very well.'

  She jumped at the words. Rann still sat on his rock, as collected as ever. He put aside his scimitar which he had been burnishing to a mirror sheen and stood, awaiting the glacier's verdict.

  'My responsibility is clear. I must open a path large enough to permit many people to enter Athalau, that they might use the Nexus to bring down the Demon once more.'

  Moriana sighed in relief.

  'Now, my friends, you must move back. This will not be easy for me and could endanger you if you're too close.'

  Moriana and Rann retreated and heard Guardian say, 'So many people. Surely they can put an end to those cursed ice worms.'

  Out of sight around the winding of the Gate, Moriana found a chunk of dark quartz that had tumbled from above and sat. Her need for action thwarted by the nature of Guardian, she now found herself drawn irresistibly toward sleep. She heard Erimenes and Rann conversing in low, neutral tones, and let consciousness slip away.

  An earsplitting crack awakened her. Others followed in rapid succession, louder and louder, mounting toward a crescendo of noise that dwarfed even the roar of Omizantrim in full eruption. She stared up the canyon, saw clouds of mist and glittering ice crystals billow forth like smoke.

  She saw movement from the corner of her eye. Before she could react, Rann was upon her, wrapping steel-cable arms around her and forcing her back against the cliff.

  Treachery! she thought, unable to fight her cousin off.

  Erimenes's satchel swung from Rann's arm, and she wondered if the genie had entered into intrigue with the prince.

  Then twenty tons of stone hurtled down, noiseless against the awful tumult, and buried the rock on which she had been sitting.

  In time, hearing returned. In the ringing stillness Rann and Moriana picked themselves up from the tangle in which they'd lain at the foot of the cliff. They picked their way through the rubble strewn along the floor of the pass.

  'Great Ultimate,' Moriana whispered as they rounded the bend. Rann's fingers tightened on her arm.

  It was as if a great maw had yawned wide in the glacier's face. Thirty feet tall, three times that in width, a passageway had been opened into the glacier's guts. Was it Moriana's imagination or could she truly see, far within, a glimmer of that subtle, lovely radiance given off by Athalau?

  Erimenes was weeping.

  'To think that my city might live again,' he sobbed. 'You won't forget the ice worms, will you?' echoed Guardian's voice from the great, dark archway.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Steppe was carpeted with wildflowers, the white blooms covering the land like early snowfall but rippling like the surface of a lake changing to the whims of the wind. Sitting atop a knoll whose bare skeleton of rock protruded like a li
zard's spine, Fost surveyed the straggling line of men and women wading knee-deep through the flowers and tried to sort his feelings.

  One hundred thirty-eight Ethereals had followed the crippled Selamyl from their village to take the arduous path to Athalau, leaving behind a handful of the aged and the reluctant. Ten of the travellers had died already. Fost wondered how many more would follow.

  There were dark things in the Ramparts, not natural life but one of the grimmer legacies of the first War of Powers. A score of times they had come forth to beset the travellers, occasionally in the daytime and often at night. In the darkness all Fost had been able to make out of the attackers were glowing eyes and gaping maws filled with teeth that glinted wetly in the moonlight. Sometimes the attackers were many and small, but savage. Other times it would be a great, lone beast like the creatures that had come on them during the day. Those had been similar, huge armored things with spiked tails and burning demon eyes. Fost was almost grateful that most of the attacks occurred at night.

  Synalon had plied her battle magic, accounting for most of the creatures when they came. She and Fost had complete charge of the caravan's safety. The Ethereals had no concept of self-defense, nor any will to do so. They would stand looking vacant, even wistful, as a swarm of creatures like stinking scaled rats tore them to shreds. It was tribute to Synalon's sorcery more than Fost's bladecraft that so few had fallen.

  'Yet they keep on,' he marvelled aloud. He had feared the Ethereals would lose heart and turn back as soon as misfortune fell. But they took the dangers and the deaths the same way they took the trudging hardship of the trek itself, with a stolid lack of concern. Fost began to see, as Rann had before him, that beneath their veneer of fecklessness and fragility these Ethereals had a strength of their own.

  'We've made good time,' said Synalon from behind him. 'Three hundred miles in two weeks, afoot. We shall soon be at the Gate of the Mountains.'

  Fost nodded, looking back down at the long file of Ethereals. Many straggled to one side or the other of the winding trail foraging for berries and edible roots. It was something the Ethereals were good at, and supplies had not yet become a problem.