by M. A. Foster
A last odd thought occurred to him, and he stood up to look about the storeroom. A mirror, that as what was needed. A mirror. He was not vain, but he wanted to have a last look. And there, by the door, on the bottom shelf. Cracked, and the frame damaged, to be sure, but serviceable enough, if dusted. He retrieved the mirror and dusted it with his sleeve. Then he sat it at the back of the sheif, opposite him, sat back on the crate, and shook the storytell out, returning it to its null-setting. There was infinity set into it now. No escape. He looked at the mirror, and the mirror looked at him. He saw no more than he expected to; a street-tough, cynical face, bony and sharp, a little tired around the eyes.
He looked around, alarmed. The oddest sensation, as if he were being watched . . . the feeling faded, returned, then faded again. Damn, I’m making excuses.
He held the device in his lap, so he couldn’t drop it, and looked into it. This time, the images didn’t come swimming into his mind like an unusually-clear dream. There was nothing but the emptiness of the spaces between the wires. He couldn’t see anything. He knew it was hopeless to force it; it couldn’t be forced. He thought to daydream, to relax, the room grew dim a little; was the lantern running out of oil? Infinity. He had not dared to contemplate it before, but it seemed there was just a lot of nothing to it. Nothing. Crap and damnation! It wasn’t working at all. He chuckled. The old tales and warnings of the Zlats were just that: old tales. The damn thing wouldn’t work, it couldn’t . . .
... his mind had been wandering, hadn’t it? To the storytell. Try again. But there was something odd now. The light was brighter, and he was standing, holding the lantern in his hand, and the storytell in the other. Must have gone to sleep, he thought ruefully, and they have caught up with me. The light hurt his eyes, it was too bright. Someone was in the room with him, behind him, keeping him between the device and them. He could sense them, hear them breathing. The door was open and there were more outside. He didn’t dare look. His mind felt fogged, dulled by something, a drug. Cretus wasn’t sure. Something reeled drunkenly in the adyt of his mind, a vertigo. Had it been that simple? Had it worked? He didn’t know and couldn’t ask. But he thought, there’s one way to test it, and that’s to bet all on one throw. I don’t know when I am, but I’ll bet they don’t want an uncontrolled Cretus among them, whenever they are.
He felt the fingers holding the storytell, felt the wires against his skin. Sharp and cold. They would cut. He needed something to break down the fog he seemed to be in. It was distracting. He could think, but he wasn’t sure he could act.
How many with him? More than one, for sure, in the room. Two definitely. A third? No, they were outside. Two. He could do it, if they were sloppy. He hoped they were.
Cretus squeezed the storytell as hard as he could, feeling the wire cut into his hand, feeling the pain come rippling up his arm like a madman’s shout, shooting sparks, and he crumpled it up into a shapeless mass, never to be used again. To hell with it! If it didn’t work, then my only escape’s to the streets. And if it did, then transfer’s occurred and we don’t need the poor bastard who went-within. So long, sucker.
First these two. Then the door. Cretus lifted one leg and let himself start to fall, away from the door, letting his arm trail behind him, and letting the lantern begin to drop. As he started moving, he started a turn to see his associates. Who would it be? Asc? Shlar? Osper Udle the First Servant?
They came into view, still drunkenly, although the pain of the cut helped clear some of the fog. He saw strangers with elaborate headgear which obscured their heads. But their faces were open, if shadowed and oddly painted. They had expressions of disappointment and disgust, as best he could tell. They thought he was fainting.
Now! He snapped out of the fall and let inertia swing the heavy iron lantern around under him, with a snap, and he threw it at the larger one’s face-opening. The range was intimate, he could not miss, even with this clumsy, soft body. (What the hell? Did I come out in a woman’s body?) The lantern struck, bottom first, direct hit. There was a satisfying, solid sound. That one was down. The other started forward, then hestitated, as if he might try to run. Run where, you fool? I’m blocking the only way out of this dead end! Cretus continued his motion, feinted to the side, and the other took the bait. Cretus stepped out, as if to trip him, and the other opened up. He backhandedly threw the crumpled mass of the storytell at the other’s genitals. Another hit, but, not a knockdown. The man grimaced, covering himself. Cretus stepped into him, extending his left hand rigidly, stabbing upward at a point just below the breastbone. The man crumpled over his hand, making retching sounds. Cretus chopped the neck exposed by the unsteady helmet falling forwards, hard, once, and as he slid to the stone floor, he flipped him over with his foot. As the body landed, rolling, he stamped on the windpipe, just to be sure. The other man he had hit with the lantern lay silent, crumpled in a corner. Dead? Looked that way. That’s two down.
The first one didn’t appear to have a weapon, and there was no time to rummage through the robes for one. But the other had a small sword in a sheath inside the robe, the hilt protruding through a slit. This Cretus took, straddling the body. By now the ones outside were reacting, sure enough. But now he had a weapon. Let them come!
One came into the storeroom, sword exposed, but Cretus could see he knew little enough of how to use it, and wearing one of those clumsy helmets to boot. The third man was pushing at the door with his free hand as if he anticipated Cretus closing it. Good. Cretus lunged for the door, as if to do just that. The third man pushed harder, opening himself up to Cretus’ stroke without even a parry. Over the shoulders of the third, he saw the fourth, who was now looking about in total panic. What had become of the stronghold? Had they turned it into a road-house for tipsy wanderers and itinerant peddlers? This last one decided to run for it. Oh, no. That one must not get away. He’ll have to talk. Cretus stepped over the body blocking the doorway, and started after him. The man had discarded his headdress, but had collided with the edge of the jamb leading to a set of stairs in their right position, and was only just now starting up. Seemed old and out of shape. Cretus raced to the stairs, seized a rising foot and pulled. A bulky mass responded, slowly at first, but like all things that fall, swiftly enough in the end. The fourth rolled back into the chamber with no ceremony at all.
Him Cretus rolled over, straddled, and laid the edge of the sword across the soft, jowly throat.
Cretus grinned down at the old man, jerking the sword suggestively, watching the dull edge indent the skin of the neck.
“Yes, it’s dull, but even a fool can cut with a dull edge if he pushes hard enough.”
The old man shook his head, apparently not understanding his words. They had sounded muddled, unreal, even to himself.
The old man said, shakily, “Who are you?”
“Cretus, of course! Now I don’t care who you are. But I want to know when this is.”
“When?”
“When! Is this place called Cucany, in Incana?”
The old man nodded.
“What year is it? I know it’s been years by the look of the hats you wear.”
“The year is that of the Korsor66.”
“Does anyone number years sequentially?”
“Records are kept and years are marked as being so many from notable events, such as the assumption of a new Phanet, or a widespread natural event, or a war.”
“I am Cretus, but I do not know what a Phanet is. Therefore the office came after me. How long have Phanets ruled Incana?”
“A long time, longer than I could say. Centuries, many. That is very far back, more than two thousand years.”
“You knew about Cretus, but you do not know how long you’ve waited?”
“All I know is what I have read, been told, and seen. Cretus is known all over Aceldama; all men know Cretus.”
“How is it that the Skazenache did not change any in that time?”
“The artifact? I do not know, save that i
t is said that it was handled only during the beholdings; at any rate, it doesn’t appear to tarnish or rot. We do not know how to operate it, so it has been handled carefully . . .”
“A lot of good that’s come to. I closed it, permanently. If you live to return to this place, come get it and melt it down; it’s a valuable metal, pure like gold, but harder and it takes hell’s own fires to melt it.”
Cretus relaxed, stood up from the old man. He said, “Now lead me out of here. There were four of your hoodheads down here. Where are the others?”
The old man struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. “The others?”
“The rest of you. The guards, the attendants. You people don’t go far without them. If you waited a millennium for a man from the past, it’s a good bet you’re not common folk. So where are they?”
While the old man stumbled, trying to make up his mind, Cretus allowed himself to relax a little, for the first time. Now, this was going correctly, indeed. I come to the future, whenever the hell it is, and instead of steely men of power I meet priestly mumbo-jumbo and incompetents. Damn! They probably need me more than they did . . . then. Yesterday? An hour ago? Centuries, he had said. That he did. More than two thousand years! Well enough. This body seems young, a little soft, male now that I care to notice it; it will stand hardening, and tempering to suit my style. And then, why then, we’ll do it again, only this time we’ll do it right, won’t we, dear. We won’t ever let us get tangled in a million threads again, oh, no. This time they’ll feel the whip and the boot. They all want country villas and the love of nubile mistresses, but the only love they’ll discover will be the kiss of the lash.
The old man said, now standing, “There was a servant in the refectory above, at the head of the stairs. In the dining hall proper, there were offworlders, of which you were once one. They should still be sleeping; they were drugged. What will you do with me?”
Cretus indicated the stairs with the point of the sword. “You can earn my pleasure by showing me the door out of Cucany. I was on my way to leave before, I believe, but I was interrupted.”
“You will leave Incana, my lord?”
“Ombur lacked the concern of scope to carry out any program. Nomads! Worthless! Incana lacked will. What do they now call the land east of here, facing the Inner Sea?”
“Intance.”
“I do not know the name.” Cretus said it in an ordinary tone, but the old man, Bedetdznatsch, did not miss the hatred in his eyes, nor the lurid flame that lurked there. He thought, To what purpose we have brought this demon to life again I cannot fathom. But he must be controlled, or killed outright. There is nothing in this world, this time, which would within him restrain him. If there ever was. He will build something he wants in this time, but he’ll pull down the whole world to do it. If he’d walk out of here and put his wits up against the whole world, he’d have to be supremely confident or crazy . . . he had done it before, so went the legends. The thought made Bedetdznatsch half-crazy with fear. But another thought intruded. There’s one consolation if we can kill him. Control is out of the question. And that’s that he’s cut off his escape route by destroying the artifact. Cretus is mortal, now, and we can rid the world of him for good. And let the past remain with the past. We want no saviors and changers!
Cretus relaxed some more. This was going to be simple. The old man was terrified, and slow to boot. He could do this half-asleep.
Then something curious happened. Cretus saw himself raise the sword, to look at it. He had not done it, but there it was. He tried to stop it, but he suddenly felt he couldn’t control the movement of his limbs; there was resistance. He staggered, and tried to keep an eye on the old man, who had noticed that something was amiss, but was still indecisive. He fell back heavily against the wall, still fighting for control, and now he heard from far away, somewhere deep in his mind, another set of voices, memories, something rapidly rising to the surface, emerging, parting. . . .
Meure Schasny found himself standing against a damp wall in a cellar, holding a sword, facing a man he remembered as Bedetdznatsch, who was looking at him with an expression of stark terror. Schasny tried to speak, stammered out, “How did I get here? Where are the others?”
To answer him, Bedetdznatsch turned and bolted up the stairs madly, robes flapping.
Schasny stood where he was, looking at the sword as if he’d never seen one. He hadn’t actually seen a real sword before, and this one had blood on it. He felt unreal, drugged, half-stupefied, and when his mind wandered a little, he heard a voice inside him, speaking urgently, in words he could barely understand. The walls swung unsteadily. It seemed important somehow, but the words were in the way. He probed at it, but to no result; he relaxed and inwardly turned away from it, and then it came, pure ideas that something strung into words for him, like remembering a dream.
“STOP FIGHTING ME. YOU IDIOT! GIVE ME BACK MOTOR CONTROL! I/WE HAVE TO CATCH THAT OLD MAN SO WE CAN GET OUT OF HERE!”
Meure’s skin crawled. He knew he was going crazy. He ventured, timidly, Who are you? What are you? Are you me?
This time the ideas came clearer, and he started moving toward the stairs, seemingly against his will, or around it, that seemed the more accurate word.
“That’s right, relax a little, let me help you run!” Meure sensed an urgency to the odd voice, and a sense of truth in it, so he did as it suggested, feeling at the same time an impossible sense of separation-yet-unity with the odd, harsh voice, that spoke in his own recalled timbres and rhythms. Like a cinema, a newscast, where a speaker was orating powerfully, but in another language, and there was a lag, while the translator caught up with the sense of it, all the time the original figure mouthing wildly on the screen, waving his arms, spittle flying, urging what unnamed multitudes to what unknown deeds of valor or atrocity. He felt himself move, but he had nothing to do with it:
“Good, now. There’s a lot to tell, but first we have to get out of this pile. They are going to kill you, do you know? You will want to live, and I, dear, have a most inordinate desire to remain corporate. But later. You’ve released enough control now, so I’m going to put you to sleep for a while. Then we’ll get acquainted. You won’t like it, but neither do I, and neither one of us can do anything about it.” Meure felt comfortable and reassured. The delayed, lagging sense of meaning carried an undertone of a sharp assessment of facts, and realistic plans of action. On that note, he faded out.
Cretus flexed his muscles, and made a motion like brushing cobwebs from his eyes. He thought, swiftly, Didn’t work quite rightly, did it? Well, no cure for that. First things first. That old buzzard will be raising the alarm even now while I stop to explain things to this mooncalf. Well, I’ll show him some paces, now, and put this soft body through some changes.
Cretus bounded up the stairs two at a time, pausing at the top only to be sure it was the same, and that no additional passages had been hewn since he had come down this way . . . how many years ago? He felt the edges of the boy’s own memories, and found nothing. He had no memory of coming down the stairs. Cretus ran down the passageway, passed through a small cookroom, right. This had been the dungeons before. And into a larger common room beyond. Now he stopped and looked around, for there were changes. A lot of changes, in fact, the common room hardly looked the same at all. And there were a lot of strangers in it. He looked them over carefully ... there was only one High Klesh present, a girl, a Haydar by the look of her, and . . . Cretus’ skin crawled. Firstfolk! The creators. Strange oaths flickered through his mind like summer lightning: Hell’s highest demons! Valdflar the Oathbreaker! Sammar, who lied and polished the cobblestones of the underworld. What did they here?
Nothing looked right in this room. All these people were asleep, but at odd positions that said they were down fast . . . probably drugged . . . yes, that would explain why the boy had no memory of the stairs. Why drugged? It all began connecting. No time to waste, though. And he’d have to talk to one of them. There was
a seasoned-looking man among the company, with gray hair, and the features of no identifiable breed. Cretus hesitated, weighing choices. He didn’t trust mixers at all, but even less did he trust Haydars, and Lermen would be useless. This old man, now, he looked like a native.
Cretus walked around the table, noting a young Ler sprawled on the floor, and stretched out on the bench, a smallish, white-furred creature he was unfamiliar with. He stood beside the one he had selected, and started to touch him. Then he stopped. No. Not a mixer, first contact. I don’t know what he is, therefore I don’t know how he’ll react. Now this Haydar girl, I know what she’ll do. That’s the virtue of having knowable types: we can adopt a known position from the start.
Cretus turned and touched the girl lightly. Like all her kind, she was spare and stringy to the touch, her flesh being mostly muscle and tendon. She also seemed to be the one least drugged. The eyelids moved, wandered, opened. Closed, then opened again. The girl looked around, then to Cretus. The expression on her face suggested relief at first, but something must have tripped her hair-trigger hunting perceptions, for her expression rapidly changed to one of fear. Whatever she had done with this one, there was someone else looking out of the eyes, now, setting the muscles of the face differently. He knew that, could feel it. He also knew that Haydars perceived all moving things that were alive as either co-hunters, or meat. And if co-hunters, then there were leader and led. It was all fairly simple. He knew what to do.
He spoke first, “We are trapped and must escape this place of stones to continue the hunt. I know you to be a Haydar of the ancient High Klesh, one who does not mix the flesh, and I know you to be a noble-woman of high resolve, therefore I ask your good arm and eye, that our enemies may feel the thunderbolt. Is it to be so?” And suiting action to word, he gently put the point of the sword at her throat.
Tenguft swallowed, and said, haltingly, “I cannot deny one who invokes strong bonds in the language of the dead, that is spoken no more on this sad world, save by the initiates and the high. Are you a demon? They said. . . .”
