15
The woman was obviously near death, convulsing with great pain, her too-small body straining to eject the enormous thing squirming inside her. She was about to give birth. If she expired before the process was completed – live birth was the safest thing for the child – there were surgeons standing by to slash her open and extract the newborn lasher.
As the ultimate moment approached; the surgeons, first one and then another cast quick, nervous glances at the far wall and the narrow opening to the birthing chamber. Any moment now, he would come, and the men, conscripted from towns in the land of Bracken and from villages on the plains further south, and pressed into service overseeing this fearsome, vile usage of their fellow human beings, dreaded the impending presence.
And then, as the woman tilted her head to an impossible angle in order to emit a silent scream of torment, he came.
Manon, the grim lord of the world, walked through the door. And into an already dark chamber, an even blacker night fell.
The god moved across the floor, seeming to glide without effort, as if he were borne where he would go by the heavy shadows that seemed to reach down into the stone beneath him. As the surgeons flitted away in silent terror, like field mice spooked by the advent of the serpent, he came very near the woman and went quiet, still, intent on the moment. He had long ago mastered the art he was about to practice and it had served him well.
Manon waited upon the moment of the woman’s death, so as to capture the spark of life that would shortly escape her, before it was lost to the cosmos.
He was powerful now, more so than his enemies could imagine; still, one more bit of strength, the spark from another creature’s soul, would only serve to increase that power. Besides – and the admission of it did not trouble him – he relished the act of devouring life; a process that he had discovered and perfected deep in a past age.
He had discovered that, at the moment of death, every creature, from the highest to the lowest, released energy in an amount consistent with their strength in life, a small spark that tried to ascend into the void of eternity, hoping for – what? freedom? peace? rest? – Manon didn’t know, nor did he care. He had found that he could capture that spark, that bit of life, and absorb it into himself, becoming something greater and stronger with its absorption.
Aberanezagoth, that once great being that now wandered the outer void, dissolute and diminished by enforced imprisonment, had spoken of the possibility of such a thing to him in a distant age, in a clandestine conversation. Manon had pondered the thing, and had seen its worth, and later, upon further application of thought, had discovered the how of its accomplishment. Thirteen thousand years ago, in a human city in the south, a city whose leaders were hungry for wealth and power, and who would do much to attain these things, he had discerned the process. By painstaking trial and error, he had perfected its procedures upon the fresh, young souls of the city’s children – souls that they traded willingly to fulfill their own lusts.
Later, after deciding rightly that young, fresh souls were not sufficiently potent, he had turned to using older creatures, whose strength and experiences in life were greater. Consequently, the spark that was released upon death was stronger as well, and more nourishing. He fed upon these deaths through time and with every consumption felt himself becoming something higher, wiser, and much more powerful.
By the time he met Kelven on the mountain, he felt certain that he could rob the fool of his power, adding it to his own, gaining unquestioned supremacy. But he had misjudged, and it had been a near thing. His enemy had showed unexpected, albeit desperate resolve, and had violently disembodied himself, severing that tenuous but powerful tie that binds body to soul.
The result had been cataclysm.
Manon had escaped annihilation by a hair’s-breadth, just able to divert enough energy back to his secret place so that his own body and spirit survived, barely intact, but still united. Weak, and terribly reduced, bereft of the cream of his mighty armies through a colossal miscalculation of Kelven’s willingness for self-sacrifice; and with his grand scheme therefore deferred indefinitely, he was nonetheless wiser. Most important, his enemies thought him dead. But he had, in fact, survived, growing ever wiser as he rose again from despair, becoming eventually stronger. Now, after ten millennia of careful, deliberate effort, he had grown powerful beyond their imaginings.
Trying to avoid distraction from the delicate task at hand, he nonetheless smiled to himself, as he thought of his power, and how it had grown. There was no one now, no, nor three or four together, in the heavens or upon the earth – he was certain of it – that was wiser or more powerful.
The Maker? No, not even he. Manon smiled again. For he knew a truth, a great secret, hidden from even those gods that considered themselves most wise.
There was no Maker.
Manon had thought long and hard upon the first moment of cognizance, so long ago. How had he come to be? Had he been made? Or was his creation an accident? Manon, in his wisdom, had come to understand that it was, after all, the latter, and that the soulless universe was, in fact, the matrix of all living things. The great, boundless, star-riddled dark was the accidental cradle of existence. Mindless, and without purpose, it had spat him – and everything else – forth. In a moment of random convulsion, it had produced life.
Yes, the one calling himself the Maker had already been there when Manon and the others opened their eyes and became aware. But that, Manon was certain, was simply due to random chronological chance. By the whim of accidental fate, the Maker had simply become aware first, before the others, and he had used this accident to advantage, making himself Lord. But Manon knew better now, and whatever Humber and the others did he, at least, would not bow to a false God.
Besides, his own power had grown far beyond that of the Maker, of this he was certain. His only, albeit, greatest, failure had been in not convincing the others of his logic, and now they stood arrayed against him – the Maker and his useful fools. Well, so be it. He would continue to grow in strength, one tiny bit at a time if necessary, until he was strong enough to face them all. Then they would bow to a true god, for by that time he would indeed be something far beyond any of them.
These thoughts agitated him as they always did – beware the task at hand, he reminded himself. There was an eternity in which to bring his plans to fruition. Now, there was only to address the issues immediately before him; at the moment, the stealing of this one small, pathetic life from the empty, vacuous void, and later, dealing with Aram, the upstart, escaped slave that imagined himself the heir to Joktan. Despite his efforts to focus, he smiled at that. The man had escaped again – somehow – and would continue, for a while, to be a nuisance. How Aram had defeated his army, Manon did not know, but Vulgur was here now, returned moments ago, and he would tell the substance of the matter.
At that moment, Soroba, fool that he ever was, entered the periphery of his vision, no doubt to inform him of Vulgur’s arrival – already known, of course – and distracted him further. Oh well; the day would come when this tool, bloated as he was with the issue of his own importance, would no longer be necessary, and Manon would kill him then, consuming his soul in the process.
The woman convulsed again, writhing in anguish, and then –
Ah, there it was; the last, shuddering inhalation of desperate breath.
Manon leaned forward, the room went still, as did the woman, even as the unborn child still writhed within.
The woman died – the spark flew upward, unseen by other eyes, quick as the flash from a lightning stroke, but Manon was quicker.
He barely felt the effects of swallowing life from something as insignificant as a human woman these days, but every bit mattered. There was no advantage in wasting anything. The future of the universe, and the new order that would be imposed upon it, rested upon the foundation of his growing power.
At his signal, the surgeons moved forward, furtive and trembling, in order to rescue the
unborn lasher child, still struggling within the dead womb. Manon turned away, and moved past Soroba, ignoring him. Vulgur waited above, and the Lord of the World was interested in that which his first child would impart. He already knew that the battle waged far to the south, upon the slopes of Burning Mountain, had been lost and he was extraordinarily interested in the why. There was another secret here perhaps, something else to be learned and turn to his advantage.
Vulgur opened his eyes as the Great Father entered the room, feeling the massive presence as it arrived.
Manon walked to the exact center of the enormous, round room and faced his eldest child, the first fruit of his great power, first of his creation since the days of his reduction and rejuvenation.
“Speak, child.” His voice was gentle and inviting, and there was no hint of rancor.
“I lost many, master – almost all.” Vulgur saw no point in avoiding the awful aspects of truth. When silence followed his shameful declaration, the great lasher dared to look into the Great Father’s eyes.
Most would describe those eyes as wholly black; but in fact they were of the deepest shade of blue, like the eastern sky in those first mystical moments after the sun has failed beyond the horizon to the west.
Manon studied his eldest for a moment. “And how did this tragedy occur, my son?”
“It was the sword, Great Father – the sword wielded by the man.”
Manon’s voice hardened into ice. “He killed so many by his own hand? He must be strong indeed. Perhaps you think that I should entreat with him.”
“No, Great Father – he did not slay them.” Vulgar felt his massive strength erode to dust at the Great Father’s displeasure with his report. “It was the sword. The sword slew them all.”
Though he did not show it, Manon was genuinely surprised by this. After a moment he said. “Tell me – how can a weapon kill without the guidance of a hand? This, even I cannot do.”
“He drove it into the earth, master.”
Another surprise. No, a shock, although it explained a particularly vicious trembling of the earth that had occurred thirteen days ago. “Into the earth?”
“He was about to be overwhelmed. At the last moment, he leaned forward and drove the sword into the earth, and the earth brought forth fire, killing many of your children. The man, too, I think.”
Manon stood very still. Indeed, he seemed to become a statue; not a tremor made his robes whisper. Moments passed; time paused while the world fell into utter silence. Vulgur knew terror, then – if his report was not believed, death and the dark void waited.
After a time, the Great Father stirred. “The man died in this event?”
“I do not see how he could have survived it. The fury of the mountain was terrible and irresistible.”
“And the weapon?”
“I do not know – it must have passed down into the earth.”
“This sword made the mountain spew fire?”
“He pushed it into the earth, there was a terrible trembling, and then the mountain split open and burning rock came forth in a flood.”
Again Manon went still and the strange eyes closed, but Vulgur could feel the Great Father’s mounting agitation. A tangible pressure began to build in the room.
The eyes opened.
“The man is dead and the weapon is lost – you are certain of this?”
Vulgur hesitated. In truth, he was not sure of the events on the mountain; everything had been so chaotic. And the Great Father could read a lie before it passed the lips of the one who uttered it.
“I am not sure, Great Father.”
Manon grew very still and quiet again. Vulgur was fairly rocked back to his heels, resisting the mounting pressure of the god’s cogitations. Several long moments passed. In the midst of mounting distress, the lasher became aware of another, much smaller presence that entered the room. Trembling in every fiber, he turned his head. Soroba stood inside the doorway, his hands in his robe, obviously summoned, for his attention was fixed on Manon; he did not even glance at Vulgur.
Manon’s eyes remained closed as he spoke. “What of the man – what do our spies tell us?”
Soroba swallowed. He stood a good distance further from the epicenter, yet he, too, felt the unnerving pressure building in the room.
“The horse took him east, master – to the town, probably.”
“And the weapon?”
Soroba swallowed again. He removed one hand from his robe, reaching out for the side of the opening. The force of the god’s emotion pushed at him like an unseen hand, threatening to force him from the room.
“The weapon is with the man, I would guess, my lord.”
“I do not approve when my servants render a guess in response to me.”
Soroba went white; the hand grasping at the wall trembled. After a moment, the other hand appeared from beneath his robe and pointed in the general direction of the big lasher.
“Vulgur was there, my lord – perhaps he knows?”
The sapphire orbs opened, flicked once in the direction of Vulgur and then settled on Soroba. “Vulgur has told me what he knows – and he hides nothing from me. Of what use are spies that do not impart good information?” He let the question hang for a moment and then continued before Soroba could think of an answer. “Does the man live?”
“It is believed that he does, my lord. It is very strongly believed that he yet lives,” he added hastily.
“So – the man lives, but we do not know if he still possesses the weapon?”
“But why would he leave it behind?” Soroba asked, carefully. “A thing of such power – why would he leave it? He – or his followers – someone would have retrieved this thing.”
“From a river of burning rock?”
“If he escaped the mountain, and was yet alive, I cannot imagine that he would abandon the weapon.”
“Ah, indeed. You see, Hurack, sometimes your words convey something of value.” He smiled even as Soroba chafed at the rebuke. “Yes – if the man lives, he must yet possess the weapon.” The god leaned forward and his gaze hardened. “You will go now and give instruction to verify that what we believe to be true is true. And then you will return to me; there is a task to which I would have you attend.”
“Yes, master.” Soroba turned and left the room as quickly as if driven from it by an implacable wind.
Manon looked at Vulgur as the lasher stepped backward in an attempt to relieve the immense pressure upon his huge frame. But at that moment the pressure lessened. Manon smiled. A moment later, wonder of wonders, the Great Father laughed.
“At last,” he said, and there was overt pleasure in the timbre of his voice, “at last they have overreached.”
Vulgur blinked. “Master?”
“My enemies.” He laughed again, quietly, a harsh, staccato whisper that yet seemed to fill the room. “They fear me and will not face me. So, they think to use this man as their tool, filling his head with lies and promises of glory. And to that end, they place in his hands – and consequently within my grasp – the repository of their combined power.”
“The sword?”
“Of course.” Manon smiled gently at his firstborn. “What else could this thing be? I see the hand of poor Joktan in this. No doubt he believes that if he’d possessed a weapon such as this that he could have prevailed on that day. He dares to come here sometimes, you know, even now, and I make sport with him, even as he imagines himself a spy.” His laughter erupted again and rebounded off the distant walls. “I knew that he was a fool and that he had the sympathy of the others, but this – this is more than foolish; indeed, it is reckless on their part. Ah, my son, this changes everything.”
Though he did not comprehend the reason for the Great Father’s humor, Vulgur was overjoyed that whatever it was, it had pushed his own dismal failure aside, at least for the moment.
The god’s mirth faded and he grew serious again. He looked at Vulgur. “This sword must come to me.”
�
�Master?”
Manon nodded toward the southern wall of the great room. “This weapon that the man used on the mountain must come to me. You, my son, will find him and kill him, and bring the sword to me.”
“Yes, Great Father.” Vulgar lowered his head and waited for dismissal. Instead, he felt the rising tide of Manon’s agitation once again fill the room. He looked up at the god. The dark gaze was once again turned inward, examining secret thoughts.
After a moment, Manon opened his eyes and asked. “How did the man escape from the burning rock that destroyed my legions, I wonder?”
Vulgar hesitated. “Perhaps it was his strange armor.”
“Describe this armor.”
“It was white – and yellow and it clothed him almost like skin.”
“You’ve never seen its like?”
“No, Great Father.”
The expression on Manon’s smooth gray face did not change, but he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Of course. There is too much power in the blade – power that is not of the earth, which is why the mountain reacted as it did. A human man could not wield such a thing or wear it without protection. It might even destroy you, my son, were you to attempt to bring it to me. We must find another way.”
After a moment, he stated again, “For it must come to me.”
After that, for a long time, there was no sound in the vast room other than Vulgar’s heavy breathing. Then, at last, Manon stirred himself again.
“This man must be allowed to come to me – it is doubtlessly what they, and he, desire. So, we must allow it. But it will be a delicate thing, and it must be done with all deliberateness and care, and yet with due speed. His suspicions must not be aroused – nor theirs. I can wait for the proper moment, and it will take time, years perhaps, but my patience is not boundless. Sooner is better than later.”
Vulgur, who had never been privy to the Great Father’s thoughts in such a manner, simply stared. But Manon was in a convivial mood.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 11
