He knew the sounds for what they were the instant he heard them. He only fooled himself into thinking they were something else. Chasing after the growing moans, snaking through the familiar corridors with a horror that gave every book lips to laugh mocking laughter, he came to the archeological section—and to a shame that burned in his gut even now, cried.
She was under him. That was not surprising if not convenience hidden away for meeting’s purpose. There was a bag over her head. She doesn’t know who she was fucking. Somehow that did nothing to blunt the betrayal. Most damning of all was the familiar beacon of furry scarlet hair waving in time to the groans. Damn him, he thought, weeping. He has to take everything from me. Her scream grew to a peak as she came, back and legs convulsing instinctively.
Mykel wanted to run back into the shadows; instead he stood rooted to the ground. In the darkness, cloaked as he was, he could not see what transpired next. But his mind let him see where his eyes did not. A man topped with an orange cap of hair, spread out ridiculously like a mushroom on his head. Tufts of orange bounced in time with his sickening arrogant swagger. He could practically see the hair bouncing past him, mocking him. I’ve had my fill of her, he said as he left. You can have her now.
He did not move, did not trust himself to breathe. Flashes of orange hair kept invading his mind. How could she... how? The jangle of woman’s jewelry awoke his trance, and he knew she was in the hallway. He stepped forth to stop her.
“Mykel... I...” Her eyes darted to the darkness, and her mouth made a little O as clarity snapped her face taut in terror. “I... I...” She hunched in her garments as if to cover her crime. “Mykel, please. You have to understand. He... he told me to wear the bag... I... I—” She flinched under the weight of his eyes, dark and judging. Fear. A tiny shard of his mind reveled in it. She deserves it. “Please Mykel. Say something. Anything. Please!”
Mykel could not recall a moment, before or since, when he so much wanted to kill someone. Only he didn’t know whom: the bastard half-brother or the sweet-bodied whore before him. The whore that was gentle with him. The whore that let him do things boys ached of doing in dreams of spring conquest. He could not stop the tears from falling.
“I’m so sorry.”
The genuine in her voice was maddening. He turned and ran, the gold clinking behind him. He did not know where he ran or for how long; only that after a time he bumped into the stern-faced tower of his step-father, eyes already flat with knowing. When he was allowed back into the library she was gone, and when she returned she was a common woman begging forgiveness. Mykel growled at the memory, at his damned childish helplessness. There was no choice but to forgive her. Who else would come to his bed?
No. At the corner of his eye Mykel saw a crimson light flare from below, its light a twinkling upon a dark horizon. He followed familiar corridors that bridged one library into another; suddenly he found himself in Kal Jada, in a vaguely familiar spot: a mouth of a stairwell leading downward, gilded in swelling heat against black walls and doors, themselves chiseled in patterns of flame. Familiar. He had to pull hard on his memory to remember—the Riftgate had stood against demon and Fire—and then was gone. He descended to the twin doors, faintly touched the embossed flames. The doors swung quietly as if newly greased, opening into a corridor that hung with veils of acquaintance.
Quickly the hallway ended, and he was in someplace... different.
A chamber that stretched as high as the sky stood about him. Pillars—so thick it would have taken three men hand-to-hand to surround it—curved up the walls to meet at a single point at the conical-roofed ceiling. There were tiny rows of runes chipped into the stone, so small and old they were barely there at all. Yet as he drew closer Mykel could see them, lines of it curving around the stone, chained together by the plates between the pillars to complete the story. Mykel touched one of the pillars and coughed as the dust billowed into his face. If only I were born a thousand years ago... Then perhaps he could read the script. For that matter he wished there was a book and quill with him. Even the smallest turkey’s tail-feather would do, just to write down a fraction of what he saw. No one would believe me. But what a story!
Coming closer to the center Mykel saw even more of the chamber’s features coming forth from shadow. A simple ziggurat stood tall at the chamber’s heart. Embossed with gold, the pale-white plates spanned a good twelve feet in length, and three feet in height. From out of the darkness came a sliver of white light, so bright it might have been a flame from the sun. Mykel felt himself compelled to the light. A thousand words burned in his brain, a thousand flashes woven into a vision that pivoted his sight to gaze upon the treasure atop the ziggurat without making a single step. Mykel was taken aback at the treasure greeting him. It’s so... beautiful.
A knife-fingered gauntlet stabbed deep in a block of red marble. It had the knife-fingers apart from the gauntlet itself, yet did not fall sway to gravity. A spell, perhaps. Set at the back of the palm was a ruby, glimmering like blood, surrounded by a ring of gold. That ring expanded, flared out to a length of gold easily the reach of his forearm. A crimson U extended up the elbow, from which grew into a second gold segment of the gauntlet. The second extension of gold too, ended in a curve that completed the gauntlet, binding flesh to metal in perfect unison.
It was a khatar, Mykel realized. He knew it for what it was because its smaller cousin was clamped on his good forearm. Even though his own blade was crafted for harmful intent, he knew upon sight it was nothing compared to the knife-fingered gauntlet impaled upon the stone. His own claws were weapons of harm, weapons of man.
The khatar was a weapon of death. A weapon of gods.
A thousand clicks filled the air, a thousand footsteps of hesitant caution. Invisible torchlight cast a ruby sheen that danced on unsure faces. Mykel saw himself reflected as though in a mirror. Only the image did not step from the mirror. Impossible. The word was hollow in the librarian’s ears. As one they met each other’s gazes. As one their eyes swung to the mystical khatar.
As one they exploded into action.
The room was a writhing, screaming frenzy. The mimics threw themselves forward, grabbing hair, using heads as steps, crushing those too slow. Brains splattered in pools of sloppy gray. Nothing deterred them. Not thought, not reason, not will. Just a murderous frenzy that was the gift of their barbarian ancestors.
Wave after wave the doubles appeared, climbing over each other, kicking whatever target was in range. There were blond Mykels, red-haired Mykels, Mykels with ponytails. There were short Mykels and large Mykels, young and old Mykels. Blind Mykels, deaf Mykels, hunchbacked Mykels. Every vocation, every possibility, every choice, from his parents and friends and everybody in-between, burst into the chamber from shadows unknown, fighting to reach the prize. They knew not what it was, only that it called to them. Mykel could feel it now, tugging at him, teasing him with caresses of emotion. The librarian denied the seductive thoughts spinning in his brain. All he did was watch.
After an eternity, the portals were finally exhausted. Ribbons of blood traced a mosaic of death down the ziggurat, highlighted with the corpses so happily made in the frenzy of obsession. Mykel steeled himself from looking down. It was a bit unnerving to see his own face, warped by blood, filmed with death. The ferryman’s fee had been high, indeed.
Mykel thrust the dead arm into the gauntlet. He didn’t know why, but it was too late for confusion. The steel molded against the flesh like a lover’s caress, as if it was waiting for him. Mykel roared and pulled the khatar free... and suddenly he was on the ground, and both ziggurat and the doubles were gone like twisting threads of smoke. Mykel neither knew why or how, nor did he care. Only the gauntlet. He hoisted the needle-fingers up, to no one, to the world, and the fire blazed as brightly as there were those crooning before it. Though that
was not the source of the librarian’s awe.
The dead arm coming to life, was.
He could feel the life in those limp dead fingers. And they responded to his thoughts. Folding, bending, clenching... there was no slowness, no hint of the wrist that was bent downward, dead as a man hung by the gallows. It was a miracle. Mykel almost cried... and then a strange knowledge moved his lips.
“Ifirit,” Mykel whispered softly. “You are Ifirit.”
The ruby at the khatar’s palm shone bright as if agreement, as smoke came to take them away.
XIV
When the smoke faded, Mykel found himself at the exact place as before. The mysterious lights that had filled the library with illumination now lay dead, some crackling with blue lightning. He had to wait for his vision to adapt; so he spent the time trying not to panic.
A giggle whispered past him. Mykel spun about with khatars at the ready, only to gape at the flicker of gold at the dead arm.
Ifirit.
Mykel was spellbound. It wasn’t a dream. The golden bracer. The fingers fitted with needle-like blades the length of a long knife. The ruby at the center of the palm’s back, blood-fire swirling and roiling as if it were a living thing. The dead arm reborn. It straightened; the invisible sling was no more. The fingers flexed, where not a turn of the glass ago had hung like dead babies. Ifirit. It was real.
Mykel took a step forward, then stumbled back on his ass. He didn’t even feel it; he was transfixed by the sight unfolding before his eyes. Flame blazed everywhere, spat by the dark to form a fleet of firebirds. Fire devoured all the darkness, devoured and re-made the life of this place. A primitive rage seethed as the spectacle before him fought to make sense. Lines of creatures, plain and otherworldly alike, hung their heads, broken. Not even the smallest shred of willpower glowed in their empty eyes.
Mykel muttered a curse when a sound like a twig snapping echoed through the cavernous chamber. A chorus of whines from rusted iron, followed by growls too savage for a human throat. The librarian spun on one heel, Ifirit whipping in a golden blur. The steel caught the beast right between his jaws, sliding through the skull. That was too easy.
Then there was a familiar whoosh of sound, and the air became alive with the searing, crisping blanket of flame. Mykel raised an arm against the sudden heat, and when the heat died he found himself looking upon the aura of flame that danced along the beast’s frame. Perfect.
It made a lazy circle around the librarian, matching his path on the opposite direction. A good plan. A remnant of wit upon the eve of a battle. Only there was a second growl from behind. Mykel need not glance over the shoulder. It was another elemental, twin to the first in every way. Great. Just my day.
The thought was barely done before the wolves attacked as one. Both khatars took them in the chest, and in a simple gesture tossed them to the ground. The wolves became masses of flame, rebuilding the wounds sustained, twisting back into substance as they landed, hissing as to accommodate this flux of eldritch power.
Think you bastard. Think! A halo from the wolves’ ever shifting fur cast shadows of light to devour the dark veil that blinded this place. Books blurred within his frenzied mind. Come on. Come on baby. Talk to me. Distant was the din of the Fire-made hounds, though they formed a tight circle around its prey. Come on. Talk to me!
It talked to him.
Mykel ran faster, and the hellhounds followed, their brimstone breath withering all that it touched. They’re getting closer. Mykel told the voice to shut up. Just keep running... just keep running...
Suddenly Mykel skittered into a half-fall from frost underfoot. Yes! The freezer, bursting with packs of ice to keep the wine cool. Pulling all his strength to bear, the librarian twisted a door open... and suddenly the temperature dropped to arctic levels. Good. Now all he had to do was to defy gravity, perform an athletic feat that masters of the sport had no hope to accomplish, and generally not fuck the hell up.
The hellhounds, though wary of the cold, risked the crossing. Patches of once-robust flame withered to shocks of ice-white that folded like wet paper and oozed from the hounds like wounds. Come on. Just a few more seconds. Come on baby. Come on... now!
It was a miracle the librarian was able to release himself from clinging to the ceiling. Mykel vaulted through the chamber’s open door. A twist of the torso brought the door-handle within reach; a kick snapped from the knee slammed the door closed. I’m alive. With no wounds and all faculties undamaged. Damn. From within the chamber the hellhounds whimpered as the cold reduced them to crystal, shattering as gravity brought them to the floor. Mykel allowed himself a moment of smugness. Never would have guessed a wine cooler would be so handy. Even Lazarus would be pleased.
Lazarus. The name ignited a string of silent oaths. It’s not my fault. He’s taking his damn sweet time. I bet he’s finished his search already. He’s just waiting around to jump in as a jest. He always liked toying with his companions. Not this time, old man. This time I’m ready.
A soft whimper tore Mykel from his reverie. For a moment Mykel waited. This could be some trap. Yet he could not deny familiarity to the voice. Caryl. He ignored the fire twisting through his legs. Lightning exploded from swaying grid-designed lanterns, giving life to the horror the shadows had struggled to hide. No.
Caryl was chained to the wall. Head and fingers drooped over, her clothes smeared of shit. Another glance revealed Wil, bound like his mother. Oh no. “I’m so sorry.” Tears came unbidden to his eyes, cutting dust trails from his cheeks. The hissing rhythm came precise to the cobblestones.
“Oh, you silly boy.”
Mykel slowly met her gaze. “Caryl?”
No, not Caryl. Veins traced a maze upon her sleek body like blue lightning. She paled, from milk to moon to ice. A dress of weeds, ever struggling along her body, flashed tantalizing glimpses of flesh. Her hair was a bloody-red banner, framing eyes afire with eldritch light.
“Caryl. What happened to you?”
Amused laughter was her answer. With each passing second her voice grew more metallic with the final details of her metamorphosis.
“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” Chains dissolved from both wrist and ankle. “Mykel. The only man I ever loved.”
Love. The word was a stake piercing the heart. A long-cherished dream, fulfilled by such joyless means. “You’re not yourself, Caryl. You need help.”
“Help? Not myself? Oh dear boy. Always the romantic fool.” She crossed the divide between them, each word hurled like a dagger. “Why would I want to change back? I’m much more than I was before.” Her nipples brushed his chest, and a wanton craze to mount her possessed him. “You can be like this, too. We’d be together, forever. Forever. All you need to do is surrender to Sutyr.”
Sutyr. The glamour, hanging like a veil across his eyes, was torn away in a mad surge of hate. It even allowed him to bring his khatar to bear at the hollow of her throat. Caryl just smiled, oblivious to the purple blood that ran softly down her front.
“Please, mister.” Sure enough Mykel glanced down to the hands tugging his leggings, the bone-thin fingers of a dead boy. Wil. “Please...”
The distraction cost him. With a roar Caryl whipped her fingers. Mykel dodged, but surprise caught the cloak. One twist, two, and Mykel found himself snared in his own shroud. Caryl chuckled before licking away the beads of sweat with a forked tongue. “It will be quick, my love.”
Time slowed. Each second embossed in crystal clarity. Mykel saw the knife within Caryl’s hand, saw the column of small gems, laced with wiring that mimicked some long-dead language. A tear trembled down the librarian’s cheek. There was no other way. Gods damn it, there was no other way.
Ifirit flashed upward, severin
g the cocoon that bound him. It would have been a killing strike, but hesitation stole the force from his fingers. A long welt of purple blood, ugly and bulbous, parted the white flesh from the cleavage up to the throat’s hollow. Caryl stumbled back, her face smooth of concerns. With but a gesture the welt closed, the purple spray upon her torso, slithering back into a long serpent and drove full back into Caryl just as the welt disappeared.
“That isn’t a good idea, Mykel. Must you always choose the hero?”
“Someone has to.” Strange. The first words were cured of the nausea that shivered his body with heat. Before him shone the true Caryl, the one he loved without measure.
No. She is dead. Dead! Are you going to die defending that mockery?
No.
I can’t hear you!
“No!” Mykel broke away from the thing’s grasp. The air sang of steel being bared. Images of Caryl burned in his brain. Shut up. The doubts writhed, deflated. “You’re not my Caryl. You’re just some demented shadow.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” A gesture and the firelight shimmered against the lightning bolt on her hand. Weirwynd. Not just a Weirwynd. An ikadzu. Lord of thunder and lightning.
Against a lone, tired librarian. With only one arm.
Shit.
The first spell forged a wall of lightning from the cobblestones. Mykel waited until the heat of the spell stiffened every strand of hair, then pulled all of his strength to hurl himself away. The spell continued on its path, smashing into a wall of the thickest stone with the roar of a wounded animal, mingling with great clouds of dust. That wasn’t so hard. Considering that his neck felt afire as the uncomfortable crackles rove his entire body. Mykel fought his way to his feet. “Is that it?”
“No. I have more.” Something flashed purple at her lips. Shiisaa. Her cheeks ballooned and flatted as a funnel of sound ripped from her lips, so shrill it twisted daggers into the ears. Whatever physical construct lay in its path was shattered to pieces.
Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame Page 15
