Avaldamon grinned slightly. “I have died before, my friends. This won’t be as bad as the giant river lizard. And I have been to the Otherworld before, and I know who waits for me there. My royal Princess, my wife. I have little to lose in this action, my friends, and much to gain.”
He gave a nod at the two men, then Avaldamon turned and ran for Hairekeep.
“Maxel, what can we do?” Ishbel managed between gasps as Maximilian hauled her up one more flight of stairs. They could no longer afford to stop and rest — the bones were cascading upward as fast as they could run.
Soon, Maximilian feared, they’d not be able to outrun them any more.
“I don’t know,” he said, and pulled her onward.
Avaldamon ran to within ninety paces of the parody of the Twisted Tower, then stopped. He steadied his breathing, took another ten or fifteen paces toward the tower. Stopped again.
He rubbed sweaty palms down his clothes. He was nervous, not at the thought of death, but because he did not want to get this wrong.
Avaldamon would get one chance only.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned his mind, just slightly, enough to put himself into that peculiar mentality that all Persimians cultivated for their dealings with the Twisted Tower.
Then he began to walk toward the tower, very deliberately, with slightly longer than normal strides.
As he walked, Avaldamon counted out each step.
“Now look to the pathway” Maximilian had said to Ishbel when first he took her to the Twisted Tower. “There are eighty-six steps to reach the door. You always need to take eighty-six steps, and you must learn to count them as you approach. Soon the eighty-six will become second nature”
“Why eighty-six?” Ishbel had said.
“The tower is a thing of order. It is also a thing of immense memory . . . ordered memory. If you approach it in a disordered manner, then that disorder will reverberate throughout the entire tower.”
Avaldamon was now taking increasingly long strides. He was very close to the tower, and as he neared it he shouted out the numbers of the final three steps. “Seventy-seven! Seventy-eight! Seventy-nine!”
Then he grasped the door handle, turned it, and wrenched the door open.
Something screamed. Avaldamon was not sure if it was himself or if it was something within the tower, but the instant he’d opened the door he had felt the entire fabric of his body starting to wrench apart.
The tower was a thing of order, and he had approached it in a most disordered manner.
About him the entire tower vibrated, at first gently, then so violently that Avaldamon felt his body flail about.
He decided it was himself who was screaming.
He stopped screaming at that very instant his body disintegrated completely.
Maximilian and Ishbel tumbled to the floor of the eighty-first level, losing their footing as the tower began to reverberate.
“What is happening?” Ishbel screamed.
“Disorder,” Maximilian whispered, and his blue eyes suddenly turned emerald as he wrapped his arms about his wife.
Avaldamon sighed, stretched slightly (more than glad to feel his limbs all in good order), then blinked in amazement.
He had come directly into the Otherworld.
He had thought the journey might take him a while, as it had the first time he had died. Then he saw the reason he had come so directly.
Josia was hurrying toward him. Avaldamon felt a moment of fear, then realised this was the real Josia.
“What has happened?” Josia said.
“Well, surely you know what has happened to you,” Avaldamon said wryly.
“Yes, yes, the One ambushed me,” Josia said. “But Maxel? Ishbel?”
“Was it you trying to call Maxel?”
“Yes, but I could never reach him. Avaldamon, what has happened to them?”
Avaldamon looked about. “Well, they’re not here, which is the best thing I can say.”
Even the One was not totally sure what had happened. By Infinity, it had all been going so well, and then Avaldamon .
The One was trying to keep his rage in check. Perhaps Maximilian and Ishbel were dead, crushed in the rubble of Hairekeep. He managed a grin as he stood at the window at the summit of the Twisted Tower and surveyed the carnage below.
He’d had them so fooled.
Ishbel had almost murdered him with the destruction of DarkGlass Mountain. The One had escaped only at the last moment and only by using the full extent of his ability to manipulate the power of Infinity. He’d been forced to sacrifice life in the flesh to take possession of the bodiless Josia. But, oh, what a hiding place! Bodiless or not, the One could still exert his power over events, still use the power of Infinity.
Still . . . the One missed the feel of wind against flesh, and the warmth of the sun.
Chapter 3
Hairekeep
Serge and Doyle literally did not know what had hit them. They’d watched in horror as Avaldamon tore apart, then saw the entire tower reverberate and collapse.
Before they could say anything, or move, or even blink, something hit them with such resounding force it threw them to the ground and knocked them unconscious.
Doyle was the first to regain his senses. Before he opened his eyes, Doyle was aware of the most appalling stink.
It was the stench of rotting flesh, and it was so bad, so overpowering, that Doyle found it almost impossible to breathe. Coughing and gagging, he pushed a weight away from his chest, opening his eyes only slowly. He’d thought the weight had been Serge, but when he blinked and finally managed to focus his eyes, Serge saw that he’d been covered in the bones and rotting flesh of one of their horses.
“Serge? Serge?” Doyle could barely get the words out, the stench in his throat was so overwhelming. He struggled to his feet, slipping in the slime of the flesh and bones about him, and moaned in revulsion as he surveyed the scene about him.
For as far as Doyle could see, lay rotten flesh and bones. There was a pile of it, perhaps fifty paces high, where Hairekeep had once stood, but the entire landscape was covered in a carpet of rotting, dismembered corpses.
Above the malodorous layer, the buzzing of millions of tiny black flies.
“Gods . . . gods .” Doyle muttered, unable to comprehend the enormity or the disgusting nature of the disaster.
These must be the remains of the people the One had trapped in Hairekeep.
He wondered for a moment why he and Serge were still in one piece when their horses had disintegrated, then realised that the horses, which they had so “miraculously” discovered to aid their journey, had likely been constructs of the One, too.
“Serge? Serge?” Doyle yelled, struggling about, trying to find his friend.
“Serge?” He slipped and slid, once or twice falling to his knees, always scrambling back to his feet with a cry of disgust, twice stopping to retch up bile. Eventually, he saw a movement to one side and he waded over, tearing away a pile of rotten-fleshed bones and skulls to reveal Serge, coughing and gagging as he regained consciousness.
Doyle helped him up and for long minutes they stood, rooted in horror, trying to get their gag reflexes under control and trying to come to terms with what had happened.
“Fuck,” Serge eventually muttered, which, so far as Doyle was concerned, summed up the matter succinctly.
“Maxel and Ishbel?” Serge continued.
Doyle indicated the huge pile of bones and flesh on the site Hairekeep had once occupied. “If they’re anywhere, they’re in that pile.”
Serge muttered an obscenity again, then the two men started to move through the sludge of body parts and bones toward the larger pile.
“How in the gods’ names are we going to find them in that?” Doyle said as they neared.
“Perhaps we won’t,” said Serge. “Perhaps we just need to keep on walking through this obscene sea of flesh and try to get to the coast as fast as we may. We need t
o get word to Elcho Falling.”
“Or perhaps we just need to sail south as fast as we are able to get away from this whole disaster,” Doyle said under his breath. Then, a little louder: “Who needs to fight an enemy who can do this?”
“Let’s just see if we can find what happened to Maxel and Ishbel first,” Serge said mildly, knowing Doyle was just venting his disgust and despair.
They reached the pile and stared at it, not knowing where to start. Then Doyle jumped, and pointed. “Look!”
Serge moved his eyes to where Doyle indicated, expecting to see either Maxel or Ishbel, but instead he saw a rat jumping up and down on a spot about a third of the way up the pile.
“Is that . . . ” he said.
“If it is Ishbel’s rat,” Doyle said, “then perhaps it is showing us where they are.”
“Or perhaps it is a trick of the One, luring us to our deaths.”
“If the One had wanted us dead he would have killed us when the tower disintegrated.”
“Maybe he is just toying with us,” Serge said.
“Then stay here,” said Doyle, “while I go look.”
He began slipping and sliding up the mass of bodies, and after a moment Serge followed him.
By the time they got to the place where the rat had been, it had vanished, but there was a tremble of movement in the bones and flesh covering the spot and Doyle and Serge began to dig furiously.
It was foul work, but perhaps half a man’s height down they saw a hand waggling at them.
It was Maximilian’s hand, and the two men dug all the faster, eventually pulling Maximilian free and Ishbel a moment after him.
Both were in a terrible state, covered in rotting slime and almost unrecognisable, gasping and heaving for breath, but they were alive.
The One stood staring out of the Twisted Tower, leaning on one hand as it rested against the side of the window.
Before him he could just make out Maximilian and Ishbel scrambling from the filth that had once been Hairekeep.
He was cold with fury and frustration.
He had come so close.
His hand trembled and he had to stand, clenching his fists to stop himself shaking.
So close .
The One should have attacked them while he had them both in the Twisted Tower, but he had been too wary of their combined power, and he did not know if the Twisted Tower was capable of aiding them as Elcho Falling had.
Three hours later the four had reached land free of human flesh and bone, but they didn’t camp until they had put some distance between themselves and the last remains of horror.
Doyle set a fire and the four sat in silence cleaning themselves as best they could with cloth strips from a shirt out of the packs Serge and Doyle had retrieved before they’d begun their wade eastward through the tides of death.
On the walk out of the nightmare each pair had told the other what they’d seen and heard, sharing information. Now they were content to just sit, rest, and come to terms with what they’d all experienced.
“What now, boss?” Serge said after a time.
Maximilian didn’t know what to say. He was exhausted, almost too fatigued to think. He felt deep guilt at what had happened at Hairekeep . . . surely he could have foreseen that disaster?
Avaldamon had needed to die in order to save Maximilian and Ishbel from their pride and stupidity.
“I think we need sleep,” Ishbel said, knowing how Maximilian felt. She, too, couldn’t believe they’d managed to be fooled so easily and that Avaldamon had given his life for them. “We’re all tired and overwrought.”
“No,” Maximilian said, “we need to think. We just can’t pick up our bags and continue on as if nothing has happened.” He looked back to where he could just see, faintly, the end of the area covered in bones and flesh. Even at this distance, if the breeze gusted the right way, he could smell the stink of putrefaction.
“Josia,” he continued. “Josia .”
“We couldn’t have known —” Ishbel began.
“I should have thought!” Maximilian snapped.
Ishbel wet her lips, not knowing quite what to say. “Maxel, we need to get to Elcho Falling and warn —”
“We can’t leave it that long!” Maximilian said, then apologised to Ishbel for his tone. “I’m sorry. I just .”
“I know,” she said, as gently as she could.
Maximilian sighed, bringing his emotions under control. “We can’t leave it that long. The One is not going to rest in his Josia existence and just wait for us to arrive at Elcho Falling. I gave Axis and through him, Georgdi and Insharah, and gods alone know who else at Elcho Falling, the means to communicate with Josia. Except it isn’t Josia they are communicating with, is it? It is the One, and the possibilities for deception are boundless.”
“He’s going to be even more pissed now he failed to kill you and Ishbel in Hairekeep,” Serge remarked.
“Thank you for that observation, Serge,” Maximilian said. He rubbed his face with a hand, trying to dredge up the energy he needed to think.
“I have heard a little of Josia and the Twisted Tower,” Doyle said. “Maximilian, he can’t leave the Twisted Tower, can he?”
“No,” Maximilian said, “not if he has inhabited Josia’s fleshless existence. He is as trapped in the Twisted Tower as was Josia.”
“He needs flesh?” Doyle said.
Maximilian nodded. “In order to leave the Twisted Tower, yes, although I have no idea where the One might find it. He had to wait until Kanubai took corporeal form before he could make the jump into it. Taking ‘flesh’ is not an easy thing to accomplish if you are not born into it.”
“What real damage can he do from the Twisted Tower, then?” Serge said.
Ishbel winced.
“That much fucking damage!” Maximilian hissed, waving a hand at the slaughter they’d just taken three hours to walk out of.
No one said anything for a long minute.
“Is it possible to block off the Twisted Tower?” Ishbel said eventually. “Block it off completely from the world of the living?”
“Yes,” Maximilian said, “I’ve been sitting here thinking about it. It can be done, but .”
“It is dangerous,” Ishbel said.
Maximilian gave her a small, bleak smile.
“What do you need to do?” Ishbel said.
“The actual process is simplicity itself,” Maximilian said, “and it reflects somewhat the action Avaldamon took in order to save us.”
“The path .” Ishbel said.
“Aye, the path that connects this world to that of the Twisted Tower. The path is important . . . it must be negotiated exactly each time — which is the weakness Avaldamon exploited to save us. And if it is not whole, if it is not complete, then no one can enter or leave. The One’s connection to this world would be lost.”
“He couldn’t use the window?” Ishbel said. “He, as Josia, used it to communicate with Elcho Falling.”
“No,” said Maximilian, “The important connection is that path. When that is disrupted, even the window will be useless.”
“Are you certain?” Serge said.
“I am really reconsidering the wisdom of travelling with you,” Maximilian said, but this time there was no rancour in his voice.
Serge gave a small tip of his head in apology.
“You said it was dangerous,” Ishbel broke in, “and yet you also said it was simplicity itself.”
“All I need do is lift the initial stepping stone on the path,” Maximilian said. “Take away that first stone, that first step, and that will break the connection completely. But . . . while bending down and lifting a slab of stone is not too difficult, if the One knows I am there, and I can’t imagine he won’t feel it at all, then . . . all he need do is open the door to the Twisted Tower and, while he can’t actually walk out, he can unleash his power down the path. He could kill me right then and there. I don’t think he’d miss an opportunity like that,
Ishbel.”
“So .” Ishbel said. “He needs to be distracted. At the window.”
“Yes,” Maximilian said. “If he is distracted at the window, and if he is not made suspicious by that distraction, then I might have a chance.”
“How can we distract him?” Ishbel said.
“We’ can’t do it,” Maximilian said. “It needs to be whoever he usually talks to within Elcho Falling. Hopefully, that will not arouse his suspicion.”
“How do we contact Elcho Falling to arrange that?” Ishbel said.
Maximilian gave her a weak and melancholy smile. “That’s what I have been worrying about. It will take us weeks to reach Elcho Falling, at best. I can’t leave it that long.”
“Maxel?” Ishbel said.
“I can’t leave it that long, Ishbel, it wouldn’t be —”
“Maxel, it is the rat.”
Everyone turned and looked to where she pointed.
There, trundling along as if nothing worrisome had perturbed its day, was Ishbel’s rat. It wandered to and fro at the edge of the circle for a bit then, having accepted a scratch of his whiskers from Ishbel’s fingers, he settled down on the pack which contained the Book of the Soulenai.
“If it wasn’t for him,” Doyle said, “we wouldn’t have found you.”
“Then he is welcome enough to the warmth of the fire,” said Maximilian.
Chapter 4
Isembaard, and the Outlands
Maximilian slept that night, so deeply he might almost have been dead, and while he slept, he visited with the dead. Once again he travelled into the Otherworld, feeling someone’s desperate need to meet with him.
This time, however, Maximilian met up with the person who had summoned him hither.
Josia.
Maximilian stopped dead, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
“It is I,” Josia said.
Maximilian said nothing.
“Really” Josia said.
“I have come to vouch for him,” said another voice, and Maxel looked.
There stood Boaz.
“Your father?” Maximilian said.
“He has moved further into the Otherworld to see his wife, my mother,” Boaz said. “Do not fret for him, Maxel. He is content.”
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