Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame

by Michael Wolff

  “Here,” said Lazarus as he stopped. It happened so suddenly that Mykel nearly bumped into the Khatari. He looked up and blinked. This was another dead end. The librarian was about to say something about sanity when Lazarus crept towards the wall, pressed his hands to the stone, muttering all the while. The wall... rippled outward at the contact, sending waves of rolling motion disappearing into the dark. What they touched vaporized in an instant; the stone paths that remade the library, the braziers that lighted the path, everything was destroyed and replaced back to their former visage. Mykel, relieved that his home was as it should be, glanced upward and cursed.

  A pair of doors appeared on the wall. Not just any pair of doors, but massive, twin oval-like shapes, rimmed and chased with gold gossamer. What pulled Mykel’s eyes were the series of runes cut into the stone. They were vaguely familiar, just so it was there on the tip of his tongue. Fascinating—if there weren’t demons also scouring the library for their blood. “How are we going to get in?” he whispered. The damn thing was too big, too tall. Only a giant would be able to open this.

  Lazarus pressed his hands to the doors, and with an ever-growing splinter of light the doors crept outward. “This is the doorway our enemies seek. Follow me.”

  I hate my life, Mykel thought. I really, really do. He took a first step into the shadows, and to his surprise the brazier above his head caught aflame. Then another, and another. As Lazarus descended the stairway the lights always dogged his step. A spell. Jealously surged in his gut, but he shoved it to the side. There were more important things to worry about.

  Recognition came with descent. Hidden amidst the lights Mykel made out the curves and angles of their surroundings. That it was yet another stairway was clear from the first, spiraling down into the inky blackness like a serpent. Mykel counted the steps he took into the abyss and was surprised. Five hundred steps? That’s impossible. Several minutes later, another hundred added to the first, and another set later on. It felt like they were going directly to the center of the earth. Mykel laughed silently. It couldn’t be right. It was impossible. Yet Lazarus did not stop walking, nor did Mykel cease his gait.

  The end finally came. Panting, Mykel collapsed to his knees. The sweet numbness kept his legs asleep from so much exertion. And there was something else. A sudden brightness exploded to life before his eyes, and for a moment the librarian wondered if he was blind. Then the light faded, and Mykel blinked. The stabbing of his eyes was merely the chamber being flooded with light. The librarian blinked, then glanced skyward. The light pouring down blazed from planes of crystallized glass. Each one blazed fiercely, and without fire, to boot. A hundred of such lights came alive, crisscrossing the ceiling, adding their light with those still dormant. Fascinating. He took to a run to match Lazarus’ stride and found Jekai already asking the obvious. “How... how did you... did you do this?”

  “Me, John? No. Another can make that claim true. An ancient civilization, I suspect. One that is much older than ours.” A sigh escaped him, hinting of the sadness that only memories can provide. “I suspect we are the first to walk these stones in thousands of years.”

  Mykel, though still numb from shellshock, quickened his pace. The idea of an ancient civilization filled him with ideas of his own. What other secrets lay in wait? What books, what artifacts were nestled in the folds of light coming down? Truth said that whatever “treasures” lay hidden were sure to be nothing more than ruin. Time mixed with legend to make the items seem real. The treasure was only a whim of the imagination, nothing more. Still, one could dream, couldn’t he?

  Seeing Lazarus farther along the path, Mykel hurried to meet his mentor, and knew something was wrong. The old man’s eyes. Always they were sharp daggers to cut down any insolence against him. Now, though... now the daggers were worn thin, and a weight was added to Lazarus’ shoulders. Again questions filled Mykel’s mind, but he set guard against them with a mental shove. There was no reason to ask now, when he who answered only gave up a ghost of an answer. Mykel shivered a bit. The old man was not afraid of anything. Yet fear shone sickly in his posture. The librarian decided he did not want to know what that existed that made his mentor cringe as he did.

  Two more strides brought them to the chamber’s northern wall, where yet another gate awaited them. Mykel stiffened as he came upon the gate. For a long time, he had considered the library as his home. Now with the new paths and secret stairs Mykel realized that he had not known his “home” as well as he did. A small thing, really, but it wormed inside him.

  This gate was kin to the previous two, though smaller in size. Gold lines chased along the door’s rim, twisting and turning in hypnotic swirls. The only choice difference between the three was the grief-stricken face carved out from the rock, and the other face, smiling. Mykel shivered. There seemed to be plenty of unease thickening the air.

  Lazarus stared at the door for a moment. A look of yearning passed his face like a cloud to the sun. Then he grabbed hold of one demon’s head knocker. “What are you waiting for, boys? Grab the other one!” Mykel joined Jekai at the opposite rung and pulled. To no avail. A minute of sweat and strain passed. Nothing. Another minute. Still nothing. “Why don’t you use magic to open this thing?” It should have bent back by now, considering the gate’s size.

  “Would you like to have the Myrrh know where we are?” Lazarus snapped. “Pull, damn you!” The three strained against the stubborn door, and sudden there was a crack of light, as the doors pulled away half an inch. Again they strained. Another half-inch. And another, and another. Minutes passed, and finally the pair simply collapsed from the strain.

  Not Lazarus, though. The old Khatari’s head jerked like a dog that caught the prey’s scent. “Damn. Sooner than I thought.”

  Mykel was getting very tired of all the instinctive portents. “What do these things want? What’s worth all of this idiocy?” Lazarus offered no answer save for a glance at the floor. The librarian looked down and clamped his teeth on an oath. Manna. Millions of threads, from all corners of the chamber, crossing and re-crossing, flickering from color to color. With a hushed silence the librarian followed the manna. Somehow Jekai found his way to Mykel’s side, his body tense as though poised over an abyss. Finally, the three reached a blazing torch of white manna at the chamber’s heart. A Font.

  Abruptly Mykel found Jekai all but ripping handfuls of dust from the floor, revealing the familiar symbol of Fire. It didn’t take long to find the other elemental signs: the snowflake of Frost, the hurricane of Gale, the tree of Geo, the lightning bolt of Tesla, and the blacksmith’s hammer of Steel, all arranged in the joints of a perfect circle. “I’ve never seen a shiisaa of this size,” Jekai continued.

  “And you won’t,” Lazarus answered. “Lad, this is an oz’shiisaa. A shiisaa that can channel massive amounts of manna. Any miracle or legend you’ve read about is because of them.”

  Mykel felt overwhelmed by the history of the thing. Every miracle? Every legend? Impossible. Yet... he opened his mouth to inquire about the shiisaa’s age when his foot brushed against something. Falling to one knee the librarian put his fingers to the vein of mortar between the cobblestones and raised it to his eyes. Almost invisible, it was like the thread of a spider’s web, though black and much gooier. Abruptly his mind flashed back to the versi spawning from purple ooze and dropped it as though searing. “Lazarus? Lazarus!”

  “I’m here, lad. What’s the matter?” Lazarus plucked the thread from the vein of mortar and grunted when the thread changed from black to the pallor of human flesh. More surprising than the lack of shock was the knitting of brow and slitting of eyes. He knows what this is. Before Mykel could ask the obvious Lazarus followed the chameleon threads deeper into the room.

  “What is he doing?” Mykel nearly died of fright. Gods be damned, Jekai was quiet. Don’t worry.
This will be over soon, and you won’t have to see him ever again. Only his eyes kept twitching at the sword at the Solvicar’s hip. If he doesn’t kill me first.

  Lazarus marched from the darkness with enough hate in his eyes to shatter the world with a glare. “Come with me,” he growled, doubling back on himself. After brief exchange of glances the pair followed.

  They only went a short distance before bumping into the Khatari’s back. Immediately Mykel whispered an apology, but the old man didn’t hear, much less react from the near-collision. For moments Mykel squinted at the dark, trying to find whatever it was that gripped Lazarus’ attention. Then the Khatari made the darkness scatter with a spell and the librarian wished he’d never laid eyes on the thing.

  The entire chamber was composed of oblong ovals. The bars of glass marking the oval’s center were as sleek and sexless until one discovered the corpses standing within. “They’re not dead.” Lazarus. Mykel felt a sort of pride at not flinching at the Khatari’s sudden presence. Small victories were critical to survive insanity.

  “They’re not dead,” Lazarus repeated to Jekai. “They’re just sleeping. Look at this.” He tapped the oval with a fingertip until the pair huddled close. The same symbols engraved upon the floor. Obviously they were Weirwynd; just as it was obvious that the ovals were grouped together by their respective elements. But why? Why are they here?

  “Lads. Over here, quick.” The pair followed Lazarus’ voice to a strange sort of altar at the room’s heart, something that was definitely not there a moment before. Stranger still was Lazarus tapping the dais like a madman.

  “What trickery is this?” Jekai demanded.

  “Something that shouldn’t exist. The mortar is laced with the webbing you found. It is a kind of spell, designed to carry information from the capsules to this dais. Or at least it’s supposed to. The webbing’s been re-worked for another purpose.”

  Mykel let out a deep breath to stop the world from spinning. It didn’t help. “So what is the spell’s purpose now?”

  “They drain the Weirwynd of their magic and use it to activate that.” The pair followed Lazarus’ nod to the darkness. What, the strange rings with the symbols? The oz’shiisaa? Mykel opened his mouth to ask the obvious and decided against it at the fury in Lazarus’ eyes. “I told them this would happen. I told them it was dangerous to keep them together.” Jekai shot Mykel a questioning glance, but all the librarian could offer was a shrug. The Khatari was odd enough in the best of times. Who knew what he was capable of in the worst?

  Then they felt the boom.

  Twisted threads of sand fell softly to the ground with each quake. It thickened with each boom, and the boom, it seemed, grew with each passing moment. In a few minutes, maybe less, the castle would most likely collapse.

  “Damn them,” growled Lazarus. Another boom and the chamber shook pillars of dust like a wound. “Misbegotten fools. They don’t have a clue of what they’re doing.” He turned to Mykel, and for a moment the librarian felt fear racing from his gut. Never before had Mykel seen a face so grave, so lacking of hope.

  “We are going to be killed, aren’t we?” Strange, how calm Mykel sounded.

  “Yes.” Lazarus replied. “Unless you are willing to accept the burden.”

  ““Do not play games, old man.” Jekai’s brow darkened. “Whatever you have in mind, we have naught the time for it.”

  The librarian let the irritation latch onto him, sharpening his eyes and imposing the state of a feral predator in hunt. “What are you talking about?”

  Another boom. Sand flowed in strings and bursts, ever increasing with every boom. The two ignored the noise, their gazes locked. “Don’t hand me riddles or prophecies or your mystic talk, you bastard. Just tell me straight! What are you talking about?”

  “Listen close, boy. You will be hunted. Everything you knew in this life is going to twist itself inside out. But you have to keep it safe.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Anger welled up in the librarian. “For once in your life, give me a straight answer!”

  Half a smile came from the retort. “Good luck, boy. You’re going to need it.” It was then that Mykel saw the tendrils of smoke coming off of Lazarus’ gloves, dropping and winding themselves about Mykel’s feet—and growing upward. “And... I’m sorry.”

  “Wait—” Mykel said, just as the tendrils joined at his head. He beat at the cocoon frantically. “Lazarus! Get me out of here!” He beat the walls even as they shimmered. There was a sensation of rising, moving, disappearing as the air within became like smoke. “Help me! Anybody! Help!”

  Only the darkness gave an answer: the cool certainty of silence.

  XIII

  Cognition returned a moment later. Sentience, knowledge, knitting together in his brain. I’m alive. Mykel did not know the how or why, but that didn’t matter. Knowing he existed was enough.

  A manor rose up upon the horizon. Distance lessened cut features from the stone, a turret there; a long-tailed flag there. Mashed lumps resolved into a stone-toothed wall crowning the dark brow. Two stone hands watched him come, their folded fingers so close to perfection he half-feared they might jump at him should his guard falter. Swords acted as the nose, poised upon one another, gripped sideways by the many-fingered eyes watching with stone vision. Below them all was the yawning mouth, twin doors laced in bronze gild, wolf’s heads with gaping, slavering jaws. Mahu, something whispered. Something as light and soft as the flame crackling from a campfire. Mahu and Modo. Hounds of Sutyr, who bit off the hand of War. But who was Sutyr?

  The doors creaked open with a touch, opened into a large white square. Not dead, the square stood testament to the wonders of a civilization long forgotten. Long stone spires wound into the air, spires with fluted arches, columns with curved grooves that made the tips so thin it was hard to believe the points could support anything, but it could and did. Bridges arced through the air, connected to one another seemingly by threads. Some were thin, and some were wide enough for a procession of armored men. All led to a single gate, fashioned in the white face of a square-eyed monster, lacking nose or jaw or fang. Just two square eyes, unyielding, unblinking. Something whispered to him of destination, something hanging in the air. Not dead. But certainly not alive.

  The square consisted of flat white stones, shining in an undertaker’s pallor. Amidst the brilliant ivory stones were lines of other shades, splitting this way and that. There was the green one, leading into a twin-door mouth of silver, with distorted monsters wailing within. The yellow line zigzagged its way to a mouth on the western edge, where ghouls in wheeled chairs screamed in agony. The red line Mykel followed took him to a stairway that led him up to the square-eyed monster. The crimson slashed up the pale alabaster like a streak of blood. Mykel hesitated. There was a certain familiarity wriggling in him, pulling at him as if he were a marionette. Anger blazed, and rooted his feet to the step. He was not a puppet to be played with.

  “You should go.” A severed head floated in the air next to him, gore raining off its scarred neck in a torrent. Lazarus, he realized, and wondered why there was not a hint of strangeness in that. Only comfort.

  “You have to go. I’ll guide you.” Lazarus’ severed head floated up the stairway, leading Mykel forward. Glancing down he saw the blood that rained down Lazarus’ decapitated neck mingled with the red of the line. Mykel wondered which was which.

  More figures appeared on the steps as they climbed higher. “Why did you leave us?” a skeleton asked, thin and small, a child’s bones. Even with no tongue it was clear Wil’s voice sprang through. “Why?” Great wings burst from its back with a wet meaty sound that shouldn’t have come from dry dead bones. The wings looked as though they belonged to a giant bat. “Why? Why? Why?”
The wings beat the air with each word, sharpening the darkness behind the words to cold accusation. “Why? Why? Why?” Echoing the mantra, the skeleton disappeared into the mouth of the square-eyed monster, light as a feather.

  “Did you ever really love me?” a mound of groaning, shifting limbs asked. Only flashes between motions revealed Caryl’s red-raven hair. A tiny moan escaped her lips as one part of the mound quickened in its movements. “No. You didn’t. You just wanted a good fuck.” Hands gripped her hips and flung her on her backside. Her tight, lithe buttocks shone like pearls. Her breasts swung in sweetly-curved pendulums, almost in time to the little noises growing in her throat. “How could you love me? You’ve never even known love.”

  Anger flashed. How dare she make such an accusation! He was not some child, some upstart boy who hunted for the legs of temple maidens for sport! If anything he was better. Better than any of those high-born bastards could ever be. Down below the heat mocked him in aching laughter. His breeches bulged with the need to stretch towards those firm alabaster breasts. Or those pursued ruby lips.

  Almost without thinking he was affront of her, the ruby lips flashing in amusement. The men were still pumping into her from behind, naked as hot-legged soldiers. Naked as he, he suddenly realized. Caryl’s looked at him knowingly, a strange blend of amusement and hunger. Cradling his manhood, she fastened on him and caressed with slow, steady strokes. He hissed and jerked almost immediately, hands hovering between cradling her red-raven hair and clenching it. Her eyes grinned viciously for a moment. Then hands and teeth and tongue wrapped over him, and he exploded.