17
Words in Stone
Whether it was the rain, the night or the gigantic yet ineffective trap monster that had scared off the Russians, they had indeed been scared off. Fast, too. There is a plume of that revolting smelling smoke and a mechanical grumble headed at the double to one of the fortified settlements visible through Ariadne’s binoculars as we climb up to the Castle via the winding access road.
The views from the castle were spectacular, back in the day.
“Are you sure there’s nothing following us?” Ariadne has been tetchy and distracted the whole way here. Raising a finger to the wind and conferring with Hemlock.
“Of course, young lady. There’s nothing there. Don’t let your baseless concerns slow us down when we are so close to our goal.”
“Condescending…”
As to the turnpike, it is a good-sized turnpike with a thick covering of waterproof tar which, though cracked in places, seems to have resisted the elements with some tenacity. I can’t imagine our Russian friends engage in a great deal of repair work on this minor road to nowhere so kudos to its original engineers.
It definitely makes for a much quicker journey than floundering through muddy fields, and has resulted in a near silent journey is something of a blessing. Witches’ glower is a patented product and Ariadne has a goodly stock.
It does take a while to become comfortable around me. Trust is earned and I need to earn hers.
We arrive as the first light of dawn wends its anaemic, disappointing way over the eastern horizon. The red tint does add grandeur to the castle, and that’s the mere shell of our target here. I hope that Ariadne will forgive me once she appreciates the majesty of the entity contained herein.
Her face does not fill me with hope.
“Here we are!”
“No shit.” She sneers. “Thought it might be the other castle. You know. Down the road.”
I frown. “There’s another Castle?”
“Forget it, Lumpy.”
Our destination appears untenanted and has fallen on hard times since I was last here. As that was a good two hundred years ago, and based on the snippets with which Ariadne has favoured me it is pleasant that so much remains.
“Want to join me? See what I’ve got hidden here after our exciting escapades?”
“No.”
As she wishes. There is a small gatehouse which is in good though not unexpectedly good (I will not fall for that one again!) repair where I leave my cat-filled sack and the my sulking Witch companion, before heading in through the main gates into the courtyard of the castle.
As I depart I bark out a warning. “Keep your heads down, my friends.”
“Yeah. You do what you’re here to do. We’ll try to avoid getting eaten.”
I am beginning to regret allowing these two to come along. Witches hold grudges.
Past the main gates there has been more change. It has less the feel of a mighty garrison fortress standing tall against both East and West and more the feel of… well.
There are signs in what I take to be Polish set up around the sides of the buildings, directions and arrows. Pictures of stylised men and women. I look at some but cannot decipher them no matter how I parse them together.
Some might be toilets.
The last time I was here the friend who helped me put Emmet together joined me on the jaunt. He had been a refreshingly frank and endlessly entertaining travel companion, who also happened to speak excellent Polish and held a Laissez-Passer from the local Governor which earned us a greeting salute and a fine display of martial horsemanship which I remember to this day.
There were also no signs.
I close my eyes for a moment to take my bearings in relation to my target.
Emmet is near, but there is a multitude here, ghosts of dark days and echoes of brighter ones. At some point this ancient monument to humanity’s military capacities has been transformed into a commercial coaching house or similar, and as such there are soul-traces all across the castle, families enjoying sun filled days, iced creams, unidentifiable drinks which fizz with some form of gaseous release when a key like metal container top is turned outwards.
And war too. Guns and explosives and death. Not at the same time, obviously.
Why does everything have to be so tiresome. I am trying to do good here.
Maybe the witch had the truth of it. Everything has changed and I am lucky that Emmet may have passed through the fire unchanged. It would take quite the explosion to destroy my old friend, but there were things that could damage him beyond easy repair even in my day.
And then there is the watchman I set. In some ways more enduring, in others vulnerable to the slightest disturbance.
After a time casting about I find his trace. Into a large building that doubled as the main administrative quarter for the coaching establishment. Upturned tables and metal tube chairs that seem to have been fashionable at some point given their ubiquity. They are constructed of an extruded light metal that I don’t recognise but which is sturdy enough to have survived all this time.
Tat always survives.
The fine art on the scabbed walls is rotted into oblivion. A waste. The roof is fragile and there are a few old skeletonised bodies scattered on the floor. Starved to death by the way they huddle in the corners amongst long rusted tins, dying in the cold and dark, I sniff at the bones and assess that they died in the Catastrophe.
More souls to avenge.
I walk further inside clearing the way of the detritus with my hands. I can feel Emmet near, earthy and solid, waiting to awake from sleep much the way I had been less than a week ago. In my overfilled tomb amongst the remains of my friends. Quite melancholic in some ways but always with the hope of rebirth.
There he is. In a room with a sign declaring it ‘the Crystal Cavern’.
It’s not a cavern, though there are a fine crystal array which I will get to in due time. This is a store room that was once used for munitions. The racks on the walls make that clear. And there is a surprise waiting inside in the form of half a dozen of the Russian cavalrymen scattered across the floor of the so-called ‘cavern’. They are lying around the floor looking fleshy and decayed, just past the bloated point, no need to sniff.
I wonder for a moment what killed them and twist their arms and legs to see the give. The bodies are crooked, bones snapped and twisted out from their joints. Frayed at the edges from fire. One was reaching for Emmet when he died, hands grasped into clutching claws from the heat that ended him.
Not really my problem but sad none the less.
There is a murmur from the one nearest Emmet. I have been overly hasty, one lives, it might have information that can help me.
I rush to his side and roll him over eliciting a groan of agony.
“Apologies, young fellow.”
A young Russian man with a large well trimmed moustache that has somehow avoided the fire. He is gasping out words. Nothing to be done though as he is definitely dying, lungs crackling and straining, his wards are burnt out taking part of him with them but there is a pattern to his dry rasping. Something like “Strak Sooka.”
I should learn Russian someday. I think I did once? Then it all changed. A shame. There were some interesting developments in their literature that I am still eager to catch up on. Too much pain. I gently lift his head and snap his neck.
“Poor thing, all over now.”
Now for my Golem.
Emmet is large. It is one of his defining features. I’m as tall when I straighten up, but he is wide as a gateway.
At some point in the past, perhaps when this place was in the full flow of tourism he acquired a garish sign next to his recess, suggesting that the visitors take the opportunity after their tour of the Crystal Caverns has ended to visit something called a ‘Gift Shop’. It is sufficiently important that it is mentioned in a number of modern languages, one of which is English.
I think there is French there too.
“Emmet…”
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He has also benefited from a finely painted ivory exterior that would have been quite the look for him, but given the wear and tear of the dead years now makes him look like someone has doused him in a chalk bath. Over his he has been dressed in what might once have been a rather good quality suit, but which is now mostly scraps and damp rags.
No one has opened his mouth. There’s a trick to that. I crack the secret joints that hold his jaw in place and place a slip of paper inside.
His eyes glow in the musty darkness.
“Hello there, Master Albie.” His heavy head swings around, the light from his eyes flashing across the bones and flesh and metal scattered over the mouldy carpeted floor. “Long time no see.”
“And good to see you too, Emmet my dear fellow. As you may have deduced some time has passed since last we spoke.”
His massive shoulders creak as he loosens himself from his standing position to a one legged kneel. Some of the rotten cloth sloughs away to the floor. “You have no idea how good that feels after all this time.”
I smile. “You would be surprised.”
He chuckles. “Ahh so they got you too. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”
“Least said, soonest mended old friend. Nothing you could have done anyway, there was a veritable mob. Anyhow. Important business is afoot so... is our friend with you?”
“Always, he has been listening intently, I made sure of that, but I am not sure he understood all he heard and he has become tetchy over the years.” The Golem cracks a smile. “I will close my eyes now and you can speak to him if you wish.”
“That would be exceptionally helpful Emmet, when you return we will make good this world and maybe find out a few home truths I may not want to hear.”
“Pain is fleeting Master Albrecht, knowledge is eternal.”
And with that Emmet’s eyes slot shut and the darkness of the room is lit by a ghostly glow. It takes the general form of a human body dressed in academic robes of previous centuries, but its edges are blurred and melted, connecting to the ground and the surrounding walls, as if the creature creating the manifestation no longer truly remembers how it appeared in life.
I am only just in time.
A few more years and I might not have been able to speak to him without a complex ritual that would be at the edge of even my competence. A decade on and he would have been beyond me and far beyond any other practitioner of the arcane. It is only through our personal link and Emmet’s watch that I can reach him even now.
A red glow lights up his eyes, deep and faint, patterns that defined him in life, held in a cocoon of my creation. A mouth opens with a sigh, and air colder than I could have believed possible emerges with a hiss. His voice is faint but still has a familiar sound reminding me of kinder days.
“I believe my debt to you is repaid, Albrecht.”
I nod. “It is. For what it is worth I am sorry I took this long to return, I was unavoidably detained.”
The ghostly figure shimmers, “I know, I heard them do it to you. And your companions of the day. Did you ever tell them what waited for them in the end? It’s cold here.”
“We all have to go sometime Tomas, and we each have the path we follow by necessity.”
The shape coalesces a little, the arms more defined, the legs no longer melded. “Tomas? Oh. That was my name. I’d forgotten. I think I have a gleaning of how you exist Albrecht. If I am correct then I pity you.”
“It’s not all bad, my friend.”
“Friend.” A ghostly susurration that makes the flesh of the dead bodies across the floor shiver in place. The word sounds sour in his spectral mouth. “I think it was a mistake to follow you Albie, but it was at least an interesting mistake. I have seen and heard so much.”
So it did work. Emmett had caused me some concern with his talk of tetchiness! “And that is why I’m here. Some helpful witches have given me books to read but they are near barbarous in their misunderstanding of the nature of life. I need the information you have held, this burden you agreed to take. And quickly.”
“You leave me here for centuries Albie with the rock man for a companion, and now say that you need me to give you everything. And quickly.” Scoffing.
“Yes. That’s what I said. There has been a disaster. I need to make it right. No one else can. And I feel a little responsible. Plans that should never have been made have been put into action and the end result is… you know all that. You have been watching as was your purpose.” I pause. “And you did say you wanted to see the future? Learn all there was to know? We agreed.”
The moisture in the air freezes around me and drops in a musical patter of ice. Hoarfrost forms around Emmet’s stone body making him sparkle in the ghost-light. The pale shadow of my former friend edges towards me, paler and paler even as his definition improves. “The price of this knowledge was high Albrecht. I was a historian trapped in a hole, with no way to expound what he knew and I knew everything. Now I am not sure that I wish to tell.”
A giggle. “There were so many things, I couldn’t keep track of them all, you know. I have more sympathy for you old friend now I realise what even this brief portion of eternity is like. How did you do this, all these years. Are you still the same person you were? I am unclear if I am.”
Tomas had been a professor from the University of Krakow in a period where history was a broader, more speculative subject, and writing far superior. He studied the history of the world, a subject in which I have my moments under a variety of names, and which as he discovered I could provide a truer account than were in many of his ill informed sources. We got on, I enjoyed his company and he helped me with a human point of view when I needed one at a time when I was still considering options and when I still had peers.
When he grew old, I offered him a deal and he took it. There is no guilt in that. He got everything he asked for and all I asked was that he listened. The sourness, the obstruction is unexpected. Maybe I missed his motivations, perhaps knowing everything without being able to tell anyone is a destructive rather than constructive thing for someone with a human mind.
Still. I need that information now.
“You wish to leave?”
“Yes.” Longing in that one word. We lack that. I think we are better for accepting eternity without change or recognition.
“You are bound to answer my questions, and then I give you my word that you can depart Tomas. I hear there are worlds beyond this one for your kind and I understand you once believed that yourself.”
“Yet here I am not even knowing my own name. And my histories are gone to dust and ruin in a world of ice. You came too late Albrecht, but I will answer what I can.”
I sense no lie in his words. There is little of him left and what is there is just a mix of anger and obligation. My ritual must have been faulty. I stifle a grimace with thoughts of red roses, a personal favourite.
Some of my plans work better than others and I will take what I can. Formal language of command to link to the obligation and not the fury should do the trick. Tapping into the fury would be counterproductive as I appear to the the focus even if it would give me more time…
“The Earth is dark and in shadows. Which soul is culpable?”
“I did not see, there was shadow and cloud before the west fell into the sea. I could feel your old plans playing out, the power nexus you set tapped to cause the collapse. The implementation was subtle and partial. There was resistance wrapped in words. It was not your kind. There was no soul. A great darkness in the form of a man, and none could know him without opening themselves to death.”
“Figuratively or literally, Tomas?”
“Figuratively Albrecht. Those are the only answers you’ll get from me. Literal is difficult when you don’t know who you are. All I can give you is shadows.”
“Other than myself, do any of the Masters still stand?”
The shadow shimmers. I think that is a laugh from the context. “All gone bar you and one other. Sh
e is in the great South and builds an empire in the night. She would not help you if she could because she knows you, in that you are a mirror of the great darkness.” He gives a sepulchral chuckle.
Hmm. Probably one of the old Masters then, awkward lot. I will deal with her, whoever she might be, once I have everything else in order.
“Good chuckle.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
I consider my nails. They need trimming. “Can this be undone?”
“Everything passes so everything can be undone.”
“Unhelpful.”
“You made me that way. I am tired. You can’t keep me here much longer. The skies above are burning me away.”
The skies? “Explain.”
“The clouds seethe. There is a place for us all there.”
I test the supposition of my erstwhile friend. I can feel something pulling on the contracts that hold him here unwinding them syllable by syllable. A sinkhole that is pulling all that dies towards it.
I swear. How did I miss this? Distracted by the monsters, without thinking what could have created them. The sigil fall. Whatever it is that is eating away at the bindings has progressed too far for me to repair, a thin thread holds him here and I can see the fibres formed by the ritual bindings snapping one by one. They have been gnawed on, chewed apart. Rats at a tapestry.
Not much time left. Adapt.
“Does anyone know who did this? Where they are?”
“Yes, they know, and they are where you expect them to be. You have already seen it. An echo waits for you. Go to the place of memories. The place of living stone.”
I can see Tomas’s form drifting away. Sand slipping upwards in a reversed hourglass. Pulled up through the roof and into the clouds above. There is too much power up there. A lodestone of everything.
I cannot stop it. If I tried it would grasp me. Someone has done a hack-job on my work and that implies…
“Has anyone else spoken to you whilst I was gone?”
“Multitudes.” That grin is back.
“Has anyone spoken to you directly?”
“Yes. Two of power who came here before you did. They did not have your skill but they were powerful and they broke my chains in exchange for knowledge.” He hisses out a sigh, barely visible against the wall. An old echo fading into nothing. “You would never have let me go.”
Master In His Tomb Page 15
