by Roger Taylor
Vashnar shook his right hand. It was becoming heavier and more awkward. The murmuring returned. We are the Chosen. We have… perished… in the final slaying of His enemies. The Golden Land is ours by His Holy Word. We are not to be examined. So it is written.’
There was some menace in the words. Strangely, Vashnar felt more at ease. Threats were something he was used to. ‘You would defy me?’ he said, adding a menace of his own. His hand was beginning to distract him badly. Now it was becoming numb. He made to shake it again only to find that he could not move it. He looked down in some alarm, but his hand was still clutching the handrail. He tried again, but still it would not move. It took him some effort to stay calm. There appeared to be nothing wrong with it, nor anything unusual.
Except for his ring.
It was catching the lights above and scattering them in all directions in splintering shafts of brightness. As had happened before, as he peered at the ring, Vashnar felt a pervasive spasm then found himself looking across the grey hall. Though now it was transformed. The lights from his ring seemed to be rending open the grey dullness – dividing, slicing, separating it, rather than illuminating it. He was aware of a shifting kaleidoscope of images but he could bring no one of them into focus, try as he might. Then, though he could not have said from where the knowledge came, he knew that he was not looking at a mere optical illusion, like reflections in the splaying cracks of a shattered mirror, but at an unfolding array of many places – many times.
Many realities.
With his ring at the heart of them, an infinitely deep well from which they all poured.
He could do no other than watch, though he was more than just a spectator. He was part of all that was happening, just as everything was a part of everything else throughout all worlds. There were no words for what he found himself experiencing. Vast expanses of forest spread before and through him, cruel shimmering deserts, shifting, glittering ice mountains so bright as to scorch the eyes of anyone who looked on them carelessly. Raging oceans possessed him, and towering cataracts, and livid rivers of burning rock. Towns, villages, cities, were there too, some such as he might have known, some so strange in appearance that only his inner knowledge told him what they were. And, a bloody continuous scar throughout, countless, terrible conflicts – fields and mountainsides blackened with rotting corpses and fluttering carrion birds as far as the eye could see – lowering skies lurid with flames and carried on bloated columns of black smoke – crowds fleeing in panic, the old, the young, the weak, crushed under hooves and wheels – husbands, fathers, gentle lovers now warriors slaying all before them, wild-eyed and without pity.
The times and the places came ever faster, occasional impressions lingering fleetingly. A figure impaled with a spear tumbled from a horse, narrowly missing him. A bloodstained woman, clutching a child and screaming hysterically, fell on her knees in front of him. Blazing buildings crumbled over him. The sky darkened with arrows, glinting axes rose and fell, a terrifying concussion shook him, throwing severed limbs and arcing skeins of blood into the flame-filled air. A black sword fell through time, a strange device embedded deep in its hilt – two intertwined strands which stretched for ever across a star-filled void.
He could feel that which was him, slipping away. Though he was the centre of this hurtling turmoil, he was also the least of things, the merest mote. He thought he heard himself crying out, but nothing could be of its own essence in this broiling chaos.
The last part of him was fading.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
Chapter 22
The many realities were gone and not gone. Now they were no longer part of him, nor he of them but, though fainter and more distant, they were still boiling through the greyness of the hall as if held at bay by an unseen force. Once again Vashnar felt himself both here and in Degelvak. And his right hand was recovered. He was about to look at it, when some caution prevented him; the ring seemed to have some peculiar, disjointing influence in this place.
All these impressions filled his mind instantly and simultaneously, but the caution which informed the last rapidly transformed itself into a more familiar one as he responded to the hand on his shoulder. Seemingly, someone had restored him to what he was, saved him from being drawn into that swirling maelstrom of clashing worlds. But to be caught unawares thus both offended his Warden’s pride and struck notes of alarm deep inside him. At the same time an unexpected question came to him: who could be sharing this world that should have been uniquely his?
He felt no threat in the grip, but it was only his momentary confusion at his sudden rescue that gave him the time to note this. Under other circumstances, whoever ventured such an act could have expected an immediate and violent response. Then again, he thought ruefully, under other circumstances, no one would have been able to do it.
Slowly Vashnar released the handrail and turned around.
The hand fell away and Vashnar found himself facing a tall figure in a long dun-coloured robe. A deep hood completely hid the wearer’s face. The figure was standing some way from him, as if it had stepped back rapidly when he turned, though it gave no indication of having made a hasty movement. It seemed to be the focus of a peculiar disturbance with an aura about it that shifted and changed, like air dancing over hot coals, giving the disconcerting impression that it was being constantly made and remade. There was nothing unsteady about the unseen gaze that Vashnar could feel searching into him, however. He met and returned it, staring unflinchingly into the darkness of the hood.
‘Who are you?’
Both spoke at the same time. The figure’s words chimed oddly with the inner sound of his own voice and carried the many resonances that Vashnar had heard when he questioned the unseen voices before. The figure inclined its head curiously. So did Vashnar. He still could not fully make out what he was looking at. The figure seemed real enough. And the hand on his shoulder certainly had been. But how far away from him was it? And how tall? He realized he had nothing to gauge it by. The wavering aura surrounding it even made it difficult for him to be sure it was standing on the floor.
Nevertheless, a slight sense of gratitude for his rescue curled through Vashnar’s grim curiosity and prompted him into replying first. ‘I am Vashnar, Senior Commander of the Warding of Arvenshelm.’
A hand hidden in a long sleeve gave a slight, dismissive wave.
‘Labels, titles, vanities,’ the figure said, still many-voiced. ‘What are you, then?’
Vashnar frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I am Vashnar, Senior Commander of the Warding of Arvenshelm,’ he repeated.
The figure leaned forward a little, as if intensifying its scrutiny of him. ‘Ah,’ it said, its voices full of realization. ‘You are one of us. One of the Chosen.’
One of us. The words took Vashnar back to the Count’s Palace in Nesdiryn and he was once again accepting the gift of the ring from Hagen. Feeling such control of events as he had slipping away from him he wrenched it back, taking a half step forward and drawing himself to his full height. ‘I still don’t understand,’ he said again, though in a tone which clearly implied that this was the newcomer’s fault. ‘Explain yourself. Who are you? Why are you in this place – my place?’
There might have been a hint of a bow from the figure but it was still not fully of this place and Vashnar could not be sure.
‘Answer me!’ he demanded.
‘You carry the Sign. You are the Guide,’ the figure said. ‘Where else could we be?’
Vashnar took another, more determined step forward but, though the figure did not move, it brought him no nearer.
‘Who are you?’ he insisted.
There was a pause as if the figure were debating with itself.
‘We are the servants of the One True God,’ it said eventually. ‘Why do you question us? We are not to be tested. It is written in the Holy Book that such as we, who die in Holy War, die righteously and will be admitted to the Golden Land without testing or purificatio
n.’
Vashnar’s eyes narrowed; he had held this conversation once and, at best, he had little time for the gibbering of religious fanatics. He bared his teeth and extended a menacing right hand towards the figure. Light flickered from the ring and the figure flinched.
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Vashnar shouted. ‘You’re some creation of Thyrn’s like the rest of this place, and I’ll have none of you. Go! Now! Tell your creator to come here and face me in person.’ He turned round and bellowed, ‘Thyrn!’ several times.
His words seemed to take form in the grey air, and the restrained shadows of the broken realities filling the hall became frenzied. But still they were no longer a part of him and he ignored them. Turning back to the figure challengingly he saw that the aura surrounding it was responding similarly, growing in both size and turbulence, while the figure itself was wavering and faltering. At any moment he felt that the robe would crumple, untenanted, to the floor.
Then he sensed a change. A conflict was underway, though he could neither see anything nor hazard what form it might be taking. But conflict it was. A powerful will was making itself felt – fighting for domination. The scrutiny he had felt reaching out from the dark hood was gone and was being directed elsewhere, and he had become again a mere eavesdropper to the distant and garbled voices that were now rising and falling around him.
Abruptly it was over. Both the noise and the wavering distortion about the figure came to some violent, self-consuming climax which made him turn his head away as if to avoid an impact. Then all was silent.
When he looked again at the figure, he saw that it was now clearly present, as solid in this place as he was. It looked around for some time, then long hands emerged to test the hidden face and be examined in their turn. Finally the figure turned towards Vashnar. He clenched his fists, expecting the hood to be withdrawn to reveal Thyrn. But the hood merely nodded slowly, as if satisfying itself about something.
‘You are indeed one of us, Vashnar,’ said the figure. ‘It shines through you.’ The voice was full, resonant, and commanding.
Vashnar did not speak.
‘You are lost in this place, are you not? Its strangeness, its ambivalence, unsettles you. Indeed, its very existence defies any logic you have ever known.’ Vashnar sensed a smile in the shade of the hood. ‘Yet this place, and all the others about you…’ An arm swept over the turbulent greyness beyond the platform. ‘… are there always for those who would seek, who would find the Way.’ The head inclined in the direction of Vashnar’s ring. ‘Or have both the will and the key.’
Still Vashnar did not speak, though it was not for want of something to say. The figure’s words and his manner of speaking them told him that he was dealing not only with someone used to authority and the wielding of power, but someone who knew about him. Silence was thus his best tactic. He must let this new arrival reveal himself with his own words before deciding how to handle him.
‘Still, I would not reproach you for that. I see it myself now only in the light of my own… unusual… experience. My view from a special vantage, as it were. The one I once was would not have come to this conclusion in an eternity of contemplation.’ Then there was a grating note of barely restrained anger in the voice. ‘But, it seems, he is long gone now. And his followers. And…’ He looked around. ‘… the world we knew.’
Vashnar risked his question again. ‘Who are you?’
The figure lowered its head, as if in thought. ‘Not a question I can answer,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Not yet, at least. There is a name I find lingering about me – a name for who I was, before I became… what I became. But that is without meaning now – a burr tangled in the great weave of time and the remaking we set in train.’ A low, self-deprecating laugh emerged from the hood. ‘I suppose it could be said thatI am one who has been… born again.’ The laugh rolled on, as at some ironic private joke, before dwindling into an introspective chuckle. ‘Yes, born again – most apt. Now I am remade in my old image, by forces that I do not fully comprehend any more than a newborn child comprehends how he comes to be. Still, it is of no consequence. Whatever conjunction has brought this about, whatever coming together of strange and disparate events – including the spirit and will of Vashnar and the mysterious key he carries – we are here, and the work is to continue.’
‘Work?’
‘Your work – our work – the bringing of order out of the meandering chaos that is humanity’s way. That is your work, is it not?’ The figure inclined its head. Vashnar felt a coldness passing through him. The figure let out a long breath of realization, before continuing. ‘Though I see your horizons are limited.’ The voice became scornful. ‘Morlider to the east, Nesdiryn, silent and frightening, to the west. Your gaze is at the ground. You grovel in the dust when stars and suns shine bright around you.’ The scorn became a hissing declamation. ‘You have not the measure of either your worth or your ability, Vashnar, or even the extent of the ambitions that you harbour within yourself. But with my touch, you will.’
The coldness returned and Vashnar suddenly felt as though a shrouding veil had been torn away, exposing not only all his present plans and future dreams, but a far greater vision, one which saw the borders of Arvenstaat expanding relentlessly under his leadership – expanding until there would be no place where his writ did not run and his name not bring awe.
Part of him exulted in the revelation, but another part of him tried to turn away from it in fear. Two long strides brought the figure before him and two powerful hands held his face. The suddenness of the movement made Vashnar gasp despite himself. Staring into the depths of the hood he saw only a hint of light reflected in the distant eyes. Warm breath touched his face. He could not move.
‘No!’ said the figure, its grip tightening. ‘Neither defy me, nor deny yourself. Look into the heart of your ambitions and see them for what they are, unbounded by mountains and shore and the petty limitations of your old ways. Know that with the power I command through you, nothing can prevail against your will.’ The voice became passionate and driving. ‘Vashnar, Vashnar. You know the truth of this. Much of me is you. You are a necessary part of my coming to be again. You and the power of the faith of my erstwhile followers. Now this is yours. There is nothing you cannot achieve. Whole nations will bow before your armies, make obeisance to your flag. Strike! Strike now! Begin! For aeons I have been scattered, without form. Such an event as we find here – such a coming together – does not happen once in ten thousand generations. And you are at its heart. Cling to your old ways and all will slip from you and turn to dust. Your life will snivel to its dismal end in bitterness and whining self-reproach.’
The figure released him and stepped back. Vashnar clutched at the handrail for support, his mind reeling with the force of the emotions that had been unleashed within him. But some caution still lingered. He had dealt with enough convincing charlatans in his time to be deeply sceptical about wild and freely given promises.
‘If you have such sight – such power – how is it that you are here, defeated?’ he said.
There was a long silence, then the figure said, ‘Now that it is about me again, I see that time is not with us – or with you.’ There was a hint of anxiety in the voice. ‘There is another – a powerful opponent – one who lies beyond my touching. He is aware of us. He must be…’
‘Answer my question.’
There was another long silence. Vashnar sensed the voices returning and the figure swayed slightly. ‘I cannot. How I came to be thus…’ It made an airy gesture and the voices rose and fell with it. ‘… I do not know. But our enemies are so, too. That I know. They too, were defeated. All that was, then, was changed… transmuted.’ Its voice became strident. ‘We had armies beyond your imagining. And engines of war beyond your imagining. Engines that would unravel the very being – the very essence – of our enemies. No living thing could stand against us. Victory was in our grasp.’ The voice faltered and became bewildered and uncertain. �
��I see another conjunction – but one that should not have been. Our enemies must have…’ The figure raised an arm across its hood as if to protect its eyes. ‘I see a brightness moving across the land, across the oceans – moving through all that lived, moving scarcely at the pace of a walking man – but relentlessly growing, sustaining itself. And all fleeing its touch – believer and heretic alike.’
‘And none escaped,’ Vashnar said. The words came unbidden and chilled him to his heart with their certainty. He did not know where the knowledge came from.
‘None escaped,’ the figure confirmed softly. ‘And then there was only a brightness beyond bearing – a re-shaping, a re-making. I…’
The figure fell silent and lowered its arm.
Vashnar did not speak for some time, and when he did, his voice was cold. ‘And you – defeated – would offer me your help?’
The figure stiffened and Vashnar felt its scrutiny of him return. ‘Allwere defeated, Vashnar. Our enemy’s treachery brought about their own destruction.’ The voice was wilfully restrained. ‘That I am here – that the power of my followers is mine now as it never could have been before – marks my victory, not my defeat.’
‘I see no power. Only the antics of a market shaman gulling the public.’
The coldness touched him again and, unexpectedly, the voice became relaxed and easy. ‘Yes. I forget myself. I forget the needs of your form must be met. Here is a touch of the power – a zephyr touch, light, caressing.’ Something struck Vashnar in the chest. The force of the blow made him stagger backwards and almost toppled him over the handrail. With an oath he recovered his balance and started forward angrily. After one pace however, he found he could move no further. It was as though a great hand were effortlessly restraining him. He glowered at the motionless figure.
‘No market shaman ever gulled the public thus, I think,’ it said quietly, in reply to Vashnar’s unspoken curses. ‘And no greater effort would be needed to bind whole armies – to raze entire cities.’ Vashnar felt the restraint slip away. He was momentarily tempted to advance on the figure and strike it down, but calmer counsels prevailed. He had been struck and then held by a force which he could neither see nor resist. That was indisputable. Further, his every instinct told him that the figure’s last remark had been no empty boast. And throughout, the figure had not even moved.
