Monument

by Ian Graham

  Then there was stillness. A few loose lumps of stone fell, cracking on the ground. Then a different noise became audible. The muted groan of the wind, blowing some distance away.

  Ballas opened his eyes.

  He expected to find that the cave roof had crashed down. Yet it was still there. Through the blue gemstone, in the centre of the Monument, he could see the sky. There were stars, glittering. And clouds, hurtling past at absurd speeds: Ballas had witnessed gales, and hurricanes—and he had never seen clouds move at such a rate. As the sky cleared, the moon became visible: full, fat, shining powerfully.

  Inside the gemstone, light flared: a tentative blue-silver flash, cut short as a cloud-tatter passed in front of the moon.

  Ballas drew in his breath. ‘Sweet grief,’ he murmured.

  The cloud-tatter vanished. The moon shone unhindered. In the gemstone, there was a second flash. This time, it was stronger—so strong that it filled the cave: a blast of hard, eye-scorching light. Crying out, Ballas dropped to his knees. He felt as if a red-hot needle had plunged into his brain. Clutching his head, he squeezed his eyes shut. There was another flash—then darkness.

  Ballas opened his eyes. For a long time, he was unable to see: blots of colour floated through his vision. As they lessened, the cave crept into focus.

  The light had not vanished. Rather, it had tightened into a single beam, extending from the gemstone to the cave floor. It was the only brightness in the cave. The cave walls were darkness-cloaked. The floor was submerged in blackness— except close to the beam.

  Slowly, the beam changed shape. Its base broadened out, and the beam stretched into a cone shape. Around the beam, the air glittered, as tiny ice-shards floated there. The air took on a trace of frost; a breeze blew, gliding cold over Ballas’s skin, yet pure, as if it arose from a place untroubled by corruption, decay or disease.

  In the centre of the cone, the light altered. At first Ballas could see it changing—yet he was unsure precisely what was happening. The bright blue-silver darkened and hung there, like a fog. Then it started to solidify. And to acquire a shape …

  … The shape of a Lectivin.

  It had a face similar to Nu’hkterin’s. Its eyes were slanted incisions, its nose two perforations under a ridge of gristle. The mouth was lipless—a deft slash, seemingly cut there by a surgeon’s knife. Its cheekbones jutted, stark, angular. The skin beneath sagged inward, creating a shadowed hollow. Yet this Lectivin also differed from Nu’hkterin. Nu’hkterin’s features were brutal, bestial even; and, despite their apparent resemblance, this Lectivin’s had a delicate, tapering quality—they seemed more refined, more minutely sculpted. Nu’hkterin’s skull had been bald. This Lectivin sported a long, ponytailed strip of black hair, hanging to the small of its back. Every two or three inches, it was fastened by a piece of silver thread. Though slender, Nu’hkterin had been well-muscled—it had had the sleek muscularity of a hunting dog. This Lectivin was far more slender. It looked weak, almost fragile: a creature of libraries, not forests and fields. Its robe was different to Nu’hkterin’s. Nu’hkterin’s had been spun from dark wool. This Lectivin’s appeared stitched from pale silk. Nu’hkterin had been armed with a curved blade. This Lectivin had a long sword, no thicker than a bamboo cane, worn through a loop in its belt.

  And this Lectivin was taller than Nu’hkterin—far taller. Crouching behind a heap of stone, Ballas reckoned it to be eight feet in height. Ballas was himself a tall man—but he found the creature’s size difficult to comprehend. It seemed absurd, that a roughly human-shaped entity could have such dimensions.

  The Lectivin stood motionless. Then it sank to its knees and bowed its head—as if in prayer.

  Its body trembled. The blue-silver hue of its skin turned to a hard, shining white. A glossiness permeated its robe. Moments before, it had been composed of light: now it was a solid thing, reflecting light. The Lectivin’s sword lost its gleam, growing bone-dull.

  The Lectivin threw back its head. Skinning back its lips, it howled. Tendons jerked taut in its neck as it gazed at the Monument … at the gemstone.

  The cone of light vanished. In the Monument, the red spheres shrank into darkness. The blue gemstone grew dark, inert. Through it, the moon was dimly visible. Stars shone. Clouds drifted across the sky.

  The cave sank into blackness. Then: brightness.

  A ball of blue light hovered above the Lectivin’s palm. The creature got unsteadily to its feet. It breathed loudly, each gulp of air a metallic rasp, like a whetstone upon a sword blade.

  Slowly, the creature walked to the far side of the cave.

  ‘Novasris m’okavin, keldravis evran ma caivis,’ said, its voice grating like a rusty lock. ‘Manvaris vo skallen, miskavrin ecravis …’

  In the cave wall, the outline of a doorway appeared, glowing like hot copper.

  ‘Kavris eldaris, mohavek mustravin fulvarin,’ continued the Lectivin—then thrust its hand forward through empty air. It did not make contact with the wall. Yet the stones in the doorway blasted outward. Beyond the door, Ballas saw the mountain tops: a sprawl of pale, moonlit snow. He heard men shouting, screaming.

  The Lectivin took a step forward. Then it halted and turned to Ballas.

  Drawing back its hand, it hurled the light-ball. It flashed through the half-lit space towards the cave roof: it struck the gemstone in the centre of the Monument.

  Now the roof began to fall.

  Ballas curled himself into a ball. He felt stone after heavy, misshapen stone crash upon his body. They struck his legs, arms, shoulders. He cried out, he roared with pain. He felt blood trickle down his face, tasted it upon his lips. The pain grew stronger, and he heard nothing except the thunder of tumbling stone.

  When Ballas awoke, the darkness stayed. Now it was a hard darkness: a solid, crushing mix of bone-crumpling weight and flesh-gouging edges. Yet it was broken by a fragment of faint white light … moonlight, seeping through the fallen stones that covered him. Groaning, he tried to move. At first he could not be certain that he had succeeded—his body was numb, and he felt the dull, crawling sensation of bruises ripening. Yet he heard stones knocking upon stone—a slithering crack as one piece of rubble struck another. He groped with his right hand upwards and outward. There was pain now—much pain: his bones throbbed, his skull ached, his blood itself seemed abrasive, scraping through his veins like lumps of grit. His fingers touched empty air. Grunting, he shifted his arm backwards, pushing away a few stones.

  Moonlight washed over him.

  Grimacing, he pushed himself on to all fours. Fragments of stone fell from his body, clashing and pattering around him. His limbs shook and he felt sick. He sat back, scarcely capable of lifting his head.

  How long had he been under the stones?

  Not long enough for the blood seeping down his face to dry. Or for his heart rate to slow.

  He wondered if he had broken any bones. He put his hand on his chest, expecting to feel the agony of one rib grating against another. Yet, as his fingers touched his tunic, he paused—and shook his head. What did it matter if he was hurt? He had to find Belthirran. Once he was in the Land Beyond the Mountains … once he was there, he would tend his wounds.

  A breeze ghosted against his neck.

  He lifted his head.

  Overhead there were stars, a moon, the blue-black depths of a night sky. There was no cave roof: no cave walls: the light-ball had smashed everything to rubble.

  Ballas got to his feet. Blowing from behind, the breeze stirred his hair. It was cold, yet not unpleasant … and it blew from Belthirran, Ballas realised. It drifted southwards, and Ballas supposed it was his first encounter with the Land Beyond the Mountains. It was, in a way, Belthirran’s greeting …

  Ballas turned to face Belthirran.

  The cave’s remains stretched out ahead—a hundred paces of smashed rock. And then—then there would be Belthirran.

  There would be sanctuary. Repose.

  Strangely, Ballas did not feel
excited. For months, he had hungered for Belthirran. But now, when it was only a half-minute’s walk away, he felt unconcerned.

  He walked over the rubble, towards Belthirran.

  As he drew closer, he expected a little tension to pass through him. He wanted at least a mild thrill, a flicker of anticipation.

  There was nothing.

  As he walked, he noticed that the air tasted unusual. Unusual, but still familiar. It took him a few moments to recognise the flavour—the sharp tang of salt. And he heard a dull, booming, roaring crash. This too was familiar.

  Now he picked up his pace.

  Half stumbling, he left the cave and stepped on to a stone ledge that jutted over empty air.

  His gaze dropped …

  … To moonstruck sea water, five hundred feet below. Waves smashed against a jumble of greasy black rocks. With each impact, foam sprayed upwards, glittering like white diamonds; it sprawled over the rocks, then shrank back, returning to the dark water. The sea stretched to the horizon. And there was nothing … nothing at all … except this sea. No land. No islands.

  Only water.

  Ballas stood motionless.

  He closed his eyes—then wing-beats cracked behind him: the snick-snick of a bird flapping its way on to a resting point. The big man did not turn around. Blue light pulsed, tinting the stones around his feet. He ought to have been frightened. Or wary.

  Yet he felt as cold, as dispassionate, as the sea.

  Only when the blue light faded did he turn.

  As he did so, he reached for his dagger. He expected violence. He expected to face a Warden, armed with sword, knife or crossbow. He expected to be attacked once more; and to kill once more.

  There was no Warden.

  Only a man in a long black cloak that half-concealed the clothing beneath: the scarlet robe and Scarrendestin pendant of a Blessed Master.

  Ballas recognised this Master. Recognised him in the way a sculptor recognises his own creations—for Ballas had created this man’s form.

  Godwin Muirthan’s face was scarcely a face at all.

  The right side was a block of scar tissue. In the cold, it was a marbled red-pink colour. It surrounded an empty eye socket; inside that cavity the skin shrivelled to a tiny raw hollow. And the Master’s face still bled. Trickles of blood seeped from the scars, dripping from his chin, spattering his cape.

  Taking out a handkerchief, Muirthan dabbed the trickles away.

  ‘Do you know me?’ he asked.

  Ballas nodded.

  ‘I have suffered much because of you,’ continued the Master. ‘By rights, I ought to be dead. Indeed, I often imagined death would be a blessing. I have been tempted by the sin of suicide, Anhaga Ballas. Hemlock, an opened vein … these and other methods called to me. But I rejected them. Nu’hkterin healed me. By nature, he is a killer: he is one of the Lectivin hunter caste. His ability to deliver remedies—to dispel cankers and mend flesh—is limited. But he was proficient enough to save me. He is far more competent than any human physician.’

  Something distracted the Master. Kneeling, he picked up a shard of transparent stone. For a moment, he examined it.

  ‘There was a sivis,’ he said, softly. ‘I always wondered how it would happen …’ His voice trailed off and he tossed away the stone. ‘You saw the Lectivin?’

  Ballas inclined his head in a nod.

  ‘Are you a religious man?’

  Ballas shook his head.

  ‘But you know of the Four? And the story of their Melding?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the big man.

  ‘The version delivered by myself—by the Pilgrim Church—is untrue. At least, it is not the entire story. There was a fifth pilgrim—a Lectivin, named Asvirius. It joined the Pilgrims long after their journey had begun. At first, they welcomed it. Then they began to fear it. The purpose of the Melding was to create a single being, capable of leading the souls of the dead through the Eltheryn Forest to heaven. The Melding required vast magical energies—energies that Asvirius would exploit for its own purposes. If it Melded with them, it would exist in the Forest as an entity composed purely of soul, of magick. But it would retain a physical existence. It would have been immeasurably powerful. So … so the Pilgrims destroyed it.’

  Muirthan shifted slightly.

  ‘Asvirius suspected the Pilgrims might rebel. So it took precautions. It ensured that if it was killed, its death would not be permanent. Indeed, it would turn it to its advantage. In the afterworld, it has learned much about magick. It is powerful, Ballas. And it will not use that power benignly. It intends to resurrect the Lectivin race. There will be another Red War. And this time we shan’t win. Asvirius … will be too strong.’

  Muirthan took a step closer to Ballas. His eyes were lit with pain—and anxiety. The areas of his face that were not discoloured by scars were deathly pale.

  ‘The device you used, in Soriterath—the device Carrande Black tried to take from you—was a sivis. Do you know about such things?’

  ‘A priest told me about them,’ said Ballas.

  ‘Through the sivis, Asvirius made you do its bidding. It brought you here so that you could set in motion the mechanism that would resurrect it.’

  ‘Horseshit!’ snapped Ballas. ‘I came here because I was seeking Belthirran.’

  ‘Why were you seeking Belthirran?’

  ‘Because you and your pissing Church were trying to kill me.’

  ‘And you sought safety in a myth? In something that didn’t even exist?’

  ‘I believed it existed,’ muttered Ballas.

  Muirthan sounded agitated. ‘Are you usually given to such … such credulity? Do you normally treat fables as fact?’

  Ballas opened his mouth to reply. Then he hesitated.

  He had believed in Belthirran. But now the notion seemed preposterous. Not because he knew the Land Beyond the Mountains did not exist. But because it had been madness ever to believe that there really was such a place. On what had he based such assumptions? What had driven him to pursue such an illusion when all those around him—clever, learned men like Crask—had decried it as nonsense? Why had he refused to believe Athreos Laike—the only man to have climbed the Garsbracks?

  Ballas raised a hand to his forehead.

  ‘Asvirius brought you here,’ said Muirthan. ‘When you used the sivis, it implanted within you the urge to find Belthirran.’

  ‘That is not true!’

  ‘There is a type of magick,’ persisted Muirthan, ‘that does not force a man into particular actions. But, instead, it kindles passions within him. In the Red War, some human soldiers fell victim to such spells. They became traitors, they murdered their fellows while they slept. The Lectivins did not tell them how to behave. Instead, they gave them a disgust, a hatred, for all things human. The soldiers themselves decided how to act upon those urges, those terrible black lusts. Thus they slaughtered. Thus they butchered not merely their companions but their own families.’

  ‘I came here,’ said Ballas slowly, ‘to escape the Church.’

  ‘If you hadn’t been hunted, you would have found another reason. Perhaps you would have believed treasure lay here, upon the summit of the Garsbracks. Maybe you would have become a religious zealot, making a pilgrimage of your own. Either way, Asvirius would have drawn you here. Either way, it would have compelled you to resurrect it.’

  Suddenly, a memory swirled up into Ballas’s mind. For the first time, he recalled using the sivis. He had been in a lodging room in Soriterath. And he had seen Asvirius. The Lectivin had been in a world of dust. No stars, sun or moon shone. And …

  … The memories seeped back …

  … And it had made a gesture, a strange pressing movement with its hand: and Ballas realised that it indicated the order in which he had pressed the stones in the panel sunken in the rock wall. There had been a tapestry, too: this displayed an arrangement of sigils—an arrangement to which he had matched the cubes in the recess.

  And he thought
of Belthirran itself: the oft-dreamed-of scene, of fields, cookfires, grazing cattle …

  Ballas felt as if a parasite had nested within his brain, some vile, thought-corrupting worm …

  … For that scene had been his home. It had been Hearthfall, the valley where he had grown up—a place that he had loved, a place where he had known the kindness, and light, of a family …

  … And he had not recognised it.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No!’

  Spinning round, he strode to the ledge. He gazed at the sea, at the waves grinding over one another, at the luminous spume. He felt a type of longing—for the water’s blackness: to be consumed by it, to be utterly smothered by its lightlessness and cold.

  ‘What—what are you doing!’ Muirthan sounded alarmed. Bootsteps scraped upon stone. ‘Ballas—what are you doing?’

  Ballas looked at the waves.

  In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed Hearthfall. He tried to shake the image away. It was a place of beauty, of all good things—and it filled him with pain. No sword or dagger had ever hurt him so much.

  The agony had to end.

  He stepped closer to the edge.

  ‘For the Pilgrims’ sake—stay where you are! Please, you must listen!’ Godwin Muirthan, one of Druine’s most powerful men, gabbled like a frightened child. ‘Don’t move! Step back—I beg you! You must do your duty … No: you must … Please, please, turn to me! Promise me you won’t … the waters … you are needed!’

  ‘Needed?’

  Muirthan moved up beside him. ‘Asvirius must be stopped. My Wardens cannot do it. Not even the shapeshifters. And Nu’hkterin—sweet grief, it is a nothingness beside Asvirius.’

  ‘You want me to serve you?’

  Muirthan was silent a few moments. ‘I want you to serve Druine. Asvirius’s magick cannot harm you. The reasons are complex; there is little time to explain but … you opened a doorway to enter here, yes?’

  Ballas nodded.

  ‘An enchantment lay upon that doorway. Asvirius needed to make certain that only you—only the person who was running his errand—could enter this place. To do so, it placed a spell upon you: when you encounter any device created by a Lectivin—such as the doorway—you are able to manipulate it. Normally, such things repel those who are not Lectivin.’