Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

“Anyone can hack like a butcher. Oh, I’m quite sure you have the fire for combat, but what about the grace, the skill, the speed of hand and eye? You’ve seen Shader in action?”

  She nodded.

  “I trained him,” Aristodeus said, “and it is a rare pupil who outgrows his master.”

  Rhiannon studied him with a new respect. “You’re a swordsman? Aren’t you a bit too bookish for that?”

  “I am many things, my dear, and I have lived long enough to excel in more than one discipline.”

  She eyed the black sword, imagining what she could’ve done if she’d had such a weapon before and known how to use it. Her parents might still be alive for one; and Gaston… She cut off the thought of what she would’ve done to him; it didn’t sit right with her, not now he was dead.

  “You can make me as good as Shader?”

  “Maybe better.”

  She leaned forward, curled her hands around the sword hilt, lifted it to her lap. “Why?”

  Aristodeus tucked his pipe away and steepled his fingers. “Because Shader is failing. He lacks both the purity of his mother and the ruthlessness of his father.”

  “That surprises you?” What did he expect? Taking two opposites and blending them in one individual? It was no wonder Shader was so screwed up.

  “Maybe not with hindsight. The problem is, both qualities are needed. He has just enough holiness to wield the Sword of the Archon, but not an iota of that needed to unleash its full might. And as for decisiveness in striking the killing blow…” He left it unspoken, but she knew he was referring to the Homestead, and Shader’s balking at the final hurdle. He had a point. If Shader had struck true, this could all have been ended right there and then.

  “That’s been your plan all along? Have Shader kill Gandaw with a magic sword?”

  Aristodeus gave a tight smile. “The sword is more than magical. It is intimately linked with the Archon himself. You could say it’s a part of him. But it’s not Gandaw we need it for. If it had just been Gandaw we had to worry about, the Unweaving would not even be a possibility, and I would have ended this centuries ago.” He closed his eyes, and a tic started up beneath one of them.

  “Gandaw has the Archon’s sister and has found a way to harness her power against her will. This makes him, you might say, god-like.”

  “The statue? Eingana? The sword is for her?”

  Aristodeus opened an eye and pursed his lips. “Seems logical, don’t you think? Her might is beyond any we can muster. Only her siblings can rival her. The Demiurgos is no doubt loving every minute of this, and even if he could free himself from the Abyss, he’d be more likely to ravish her than kill her. And the Archon will not act directly for fear of ceding to the Demiurgos the same liberty. It seems the Aeonic Triad are bound by a rather compelling form of justice.” He shook his head, leaned back, and studied Rhiannon. “You’ll never be accepted by the Archon’s sword, but we must nevertheless plan for every eventuality. If Shader fails, nothing we do will matter, for there’ll be nothing left. If by some miracle he succeeds, the war will not end there, and we must be ready for the next phase. Maybe the enemy can be fed a dose of his own medicine.” He reached over and tapped Callixus’s sword, winced, and sat back.

  “What… what can I do? I’m no Shader, and this sword… I’m not sure if—”

  Aristodeus squeezed her knee, and she didn’t even flinch. A warm tingle thrilled its way up her spine.

  “Let us enjoy another bottle.” He grabbed the second and popped the cork. “We should talk some more, get to know each other better. There’s no hurry. We’ll begin slowly, then take the feeding apparatus to New Jerusalem and go from there. How does that sound?”

  Rhiannon’s eyes were rooted to her glass as Aristodeus refilled it.

  “Something to eat?” he said. “I have some excellent brie, if only I can find a knife to cut it.”

  With a start, Rhiannon remembered entering the plane ship atop the Homestead with Shader and the midget. She felt about in her robe pocket and brought out the wire between two sticks she’d found on the floor.

  “This any good?”

  “What’s that, a garrote? No, a cheese-cutter. Perfect,” Aristodeus said. “Like the company.”

  He shuffled his chair closer to hers so they could chink glasses.

  Rhiannon laughed, feeling a rush of heat through her veins that burned away the tension and left her more at peace than she could remember.

  NEW JERUSALEM

  Dawn light bled atop the city’s battlements as one sun crested the horizon. The scale of the walls reminded Shader of the Homestead. They must have been close to five hundred feet tall, and they extended for miles without end. The sections stretching between the scores of cylindrical towers were heavily buttressed, and embrasured on dozens of levels. Lanterns ghosted in between the merlons, and cones of stark light roved the ground before the walls. The architecture was of a magnitude Shader had never before witnessed. Not even Sarum could hold a candle to New Jerusalem, and the city’s defenses dwarfed those at Trajinot entrusted with keeping out the hordes of the Liche Lord. A cluster of bronze-capped minarets peeked above the walls, and way off to their left, the top of a ramshackle tower billowed smoke that swirled into a dirty canopy of smog.

  Boggy ground squelched beneath their boots as the trio trudged toward the city. The second sun rose to join its twin, and they both climbed with unnatural swiftness, setting the domes of the minarets aflame and limning the smog with gold.

  Shader glanced back the way they’d come, where the sky was stained with a patch of mauve. It must have been way past Arx Gravis, perhaps as far as the Sour Marsh.

  “Reckon it’s started?” Shadrak said, following Shader’s gaze.

  It was hard to tell from here, but the discoloration could have been spilling from the Perfect Peak. “Either that, or there’s a storm coming.”

  “You get twisters here, mate?” Shadrak asked the dwarf.

  Nameless stopped to take a look, grunting something that might have been an answer. He appeared indestructible, with his mail and muscles, and the great helm denied him any hint of expression, any suggestion that beneath its dark casing there was still a living, breathing person.

  Nameless’ mood had dipped the further they got from Arx Gravis. It could have been the lack of food and drink, or homesickness. Or maybe it was grisly memories rising to the surface now he’d left the scene of his crimes. He’d done little more than huff and grumble since they’d left the ravine. His shoulders seemed permanently stooped, as if the helm were too heavy for his head. If he hadn’t kept on moving, one cumbrous step at a time, he might have sunk beneath its weight, down through the earth to whatever infernal realm lay at the heart of Aethir.

  Lightning flashed in the distance, forking and branching across the patch of mauve like cracks in a mirror.

  “Storm it is, then.” Shadrak shrunk into his new cloak, merging with the browns and greens of the fens that were beginning to cede ground to the freshly plowed fields skirting the city.

  “Nah, laddie.” Nameless’ voice was a distant rumble. “Not a storm.”

  A cloying dread gripped Shader’s innards. Something was odd about the lightning, something about the way it… And then he realized. The flashes had traveled upward, and now he could see tiny spots of blackness left in their wake, like the dead flesh of an infected wound. Nameless was right; this was no storm.

  “We need to hurry,” Shader said. “There’s no telling how much time we have.”

  From what Aristodeus had said, it could have been days. But what if he was wrong? That business with Dave had already shown the philosopher wasn’t as omniscient as he liked to think. For all Shader knew, they could have mere minutes remaining. Seconds, even. It was best not to think about it.

  The shadow cast by the walls fell over two or three acres of farmland. It smothered the blaze of the twin suns and sent a chill into Shader’s bones. He tugged his coat tight about him and pressed on, not checkin
g to see if Shadrak and Nameless were following.

  He’d known this was coming, but seeing the start of the Unweaving up close was more than a little unsettling. It brought everything he’d been wrestling with his whole life starkly into focus and left it teetering on a knife’s edge. So many choices never fully made: Nous and the sword; the way of a pious mother, or that of a battle-hardened father. Please one, disappoint the other. Aristodeus had told him this from the start and had then proceeded to blend the best of both, so he said. Clearly, it hadn’t been about keeping his parents happy; that much was obvious now. Aristodeus had had a purpose. Always had a purpose, and now it was coming to a head. Deacon Shader—neither one thing nor the other. A holy idiot or a brutal killer. The two didn’t mix, no matter what Aristodeus said. You couldn’t kill for Nous. Shader had always known that, argued against the theology that permitted it, but he’d never decisively chosen.

  He’d almost found a third way, he realized, thinking back to the day he’d told Rhiannon how he felt. He’d been so convinced she wanted it, too, felt the anticipation bursting through his pores, and then she’d rejected him. Oh, she’d dressed it up to save his stupid pride, but he’d seen right through it. She was about as interested in his purity as she was her own. And that was all a sham, her joining the Templum of the Knot, just like his own attempts at holiness. Who was he kidding? Lallia had shown him just how difficult chastity was. He’d kept it intact on that occasion, but only just. He could still smell her scent, musky and heady. Whatever she used, it had fired his blood like a witch’s potion. And it wasn’t prayer that had protected him, either: it was violent rage. Maybe he’d made a choice long ago without even knowing it. You only needed to look at his track record to see he was his father’s man through and through.

  Is that what Aristodeus needed, a killer to get the job done? If that was the case, why not use someone like Shadrak? Or did he need a luminary? Shader shook his head. There were far better choices in that respect. Mother Ioana, for one.

  “What we gonna do, knock?” Shadrak said.

  Shader brought his attention to bear on the monstrous barbican thrusting out from the curtain wall between two towers. It was big enough to be a castle in its own right, and in place of gates, it had huge double-doors of stone etched with cursive script. He barely glanced at the writing but saw enough to know it was Aeternam, or whatever it was Thumil had called it.

  Nameless walked right up to them, the great helm pivoting as he scanned the letters. “Something from the time of Maldark,” he said. “Latin’s not too good. No call for it, except for scholars, and Thumil, of course. Dead language, if you ask me.”

  “Maldark?” Shader squinted where Nameless pointed. He started to translate out loud: “The last act of the dwarves of Malkuth, a gift for the first of the free.” He turned to Nameless for an explanation.

  “Malkuth’s everything this side of the Farfalls, laddie. The first of the free, though… I can only guess that’s the colonists. Legend has it they were brought to Aethir by Gandaw in magical ships that crossed the stars.”

  Shader glanced at Shadrak, who merely narrowed his eyes and gave an almost indiscernible shrug.

  “Brought from where?” Shader asked. “Earth?”

  Nameless nodded. “Says something about it in the Annals of Arx Gravis, those that go back before the fall of Maldark, but can’t say I ever read them. Lucius was the brains of the family. I was…” He flexed a bicep and gave it a good squeeze. “…a big dumb ox, by comparison.”

  Shader found that hard to believe. “And Latin,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how come you dwarves have Latin? It’s virtually the same as what we call Aeternam.” Not only that, but how come the dwarves of Aethir—Maldark among them—and even the elf, Gilbrum, spoke the lingua vulgaris, the common tongue used universally on Earth since the time of the Ancients?

  Nameless coughed to clear his throat. “We don’t, these days. Not most of us. Latin came with the scriptures, but no one follows them anymore.”

  “Except Thumil.”

  The great helm bobbed in agreement. “He’s a special case. Well, he’s another sort of case, too, but yes, he has a passion for all things historical. Says he rooted out the scriptures when he was researching Maldark. Thing is, they changed him.” He went quiet for a moment and then added, “For the better, I’d say, but others will tell you they made him soft.”

  Shader knew exactly what he was talking about: self-regulation; self-sacrifice. Sure, that could make you look weak. Maybe that’s why he struggled with it so much.

  “What’s the rest say?” Nameless asked.

  “May this city vouchsafe the protection of these, our brothers, our fellow victims; and may it serve as an acceptable penance for our sins.”

  “That’ll be about Maldark’s betrayal,” Nameless said. “From then on, my people mistrusted themselves so much they withdrew from the world above. It’s why we have the council, bunch of procrastinating codgers that they are. They scrutinize every choice facing Arx Gravis in the most minute detail, so that the errors of the past aren’t repeated. The Demiurgos, they say, has eyes and ears everywhere and is always baiting us. Thing is, the council reckons every act carries its own risks, so it’s always safer to do nothing, and in any case, by the time they’ve finished debating an issue to death, they’ve forgotten what it was in the first place, so there’s no need to do anything about it.”

  “Think they’ve noticed we’re here yet?” Shadrak looked up at the crenellations atop the barbican, where there appeared to be a change of guard taking place. “Want me to climb the walls, slit a few throats, and open them doors from the inside?”

  “Can’t been done, laddie,” Nameless said. “Dwarf stonework. Mortar’s thinner than a gnat’s hair. Even with fingers as dainty as yours, you’ll find no purchase.”

  Shadrak gave a tight-lipped smile and patted one of his belt pouches. “Then you don’t know much about my line of work.”

  “Don’t know much about anything since I woke up,” Nameless said, rapping his knuckles on the great helm. “Noddle’s numb as a leper’s knackers.”

  Shader shook his head as he looked at the walls. Each stone was the size of a house. It boggled the mind as to how anyone could have lifted them into place. “Must’ve had some skill to build this. Your people, I mean.”

  “Aye, laddie. Aye, that they did. You’ll not find stonework like that even in Arx Gravis. They call these the Cyclopean Walls. I heard it said a race of one-eyed giants lifted the blocks into place.”

  Shader chuckled.

  “I’m serious, laddie. Mind you, there’s more than one version of the tale. Some say Gandaw made the cyclopes from the raw stuff of humans brought from Earth, same as he did with my peop…” He tailed off. “Gandaw did a lot of experimenting here in Malkuth. When he’d exhausted his line of work with a species, he exterminated it, and that’s what they say happened with the cyclopes.”

  “Doubt he was chuffed them helping out with the walls,” Shadrak said. “Not if they were s’posed to keep the colonists safe. I take it you mean safe from him?”

  “Aye, you’re not wrong there. Course, there’s another legend that says the cyclopes were natives of Qlippoth on the other side of the Farfalls, but no one believes that anymore. Nothing crosses the mountains.”

  “Save the Sour Marsh,” Shader said.

  Nameless turned to look at him through the eye-slit. “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  A trumpet blast sounded from the barbican, and a soldier peered down at them through a crenel. His face was framed by a bronze helm with a white horsehair crest.

  “A galea?” Shader said, more to himself than anyone else. He’d seen such a helm on display in the Aeternam Museum. It had been dated to a few thousand years before the Reckoning, at a time even the Ancients would have considered ancient.

  “Eh?” Nameless said, craning his neck so he could see.

  “His helmet. It seems out of place.
”

  The soldier made a funnel of his hand and threw his voice. “Salvete, amici. Quo vadis?”

  “Shog’s he say?” Shadrak said, hand slipping to his pistol.

  “Latin, at a guess,” Nameless said.

  Shader ran a quick translation through his mind. The pronunciation was a bit off, but essentially it was the same as Templum Aeternam. He called back, “Ave, amicus. Quaeramus Academiae. Nos intrare?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” the soldier said. “Not so fast, mate. All I know’s the greeting, and that’s only coz the bloody senate’d have me job if I didn’t learn it right. Say again.”

  “We’re heading for the Academy,” Shader said. “May we enter?”

  The soldier frowned and made a claw of his forefinger and pinkie. “What’s your business there?”

  “Our business,” Shadrak said.

  “Right. I see. Well…” The soldier took his helm off and scratched his sweat-slicked hair. “Doors don’t normally open till zenith, and then only for a few shakes of a rattler’s tail.”

  “Looks of the suns, laddie,” Nameless said, “can’t be far from zenith now.”

  “Uh, one moment.” The soldier disappeared for a few seconds and then popped back into view. “We’ll make an exception, seeing as there’s a storm brewing, by the looks of it. Give us a second.”

  A heavy clunk sounded from inside the barbican, followed by squeaking and groaning as the stone doors opened outward.

  Shadrak started forward, but Nameless put a restraining hand on his shoulder. The assassin’s eyes flashed dangerously, and his hand slipped inside his cloak.

  “Might want to take that off,” Nameless said.

  “Yeah? And why’s that, then?”

  “Folks see you blending with the surroundings, and they’ll assume you’re up to no good. Don’t need to get off to a bad start now, do we?”

  Shadrak gave a curt nod and removed the cloak, bundling it under his arm. It looked like he was carrying a boulder the same color as the city walls.

  “Give it here, laddie,” Nameless said. He took the bundle and stuffed it up the front of his hauberk. The effect was comical—a pronounced bulge that he patted affectionately. “They’ll either think I’m up the duff or a bit too friendly with the beer. Don’t worry,” he said as Shadrak gritted his teeth and shook his head. Nameless produced a drawstring purse and shook it so that it clinked. “Big city like this, bound to be a rogue’s outfitters. I’ll buy you a new one. All I ask in return is a pint in the nearest watering hole.”