Book of Transformations

by Mark Charan Newton

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Caley said. Sister. He took the girl’s hand and steered her along the street. They rounded the corner and at the end of an abandoned plaza was the tavern, and the door to the building did indeed seem to hold a nailed piece of parchment.

  With the wind gusting behind, Caley and the girl focused on the flapping instalment of MythMaker.

  ‘Can you read?’ Caley asked.

  The girl nodded and began reciting the story. Just then, she began to go into some weird trance. She breathed one word over and over again – ‘Underground’. Caley looked at the pictures and saw some weird symbols sketched all over them.

  The girl tugged his sleeve with remarkable force, ushering him back through the streets as if she knew the way on instinct – all the more strange considering she’d previously been afraid to cross the street on her own. There was an old stairwell by the corner of a butcher’s shop, and she kept on muttering, ‘Underground, underground . . .’

  They descended into the darkness, where Caley could hear voices – not one or two, but hundreds, a bizarre unison he hadn’t heard since one of Shalev’s early gatherings.

  ‘Where is this place?’ Caley asked her, but the girl ignored him, all the time muttering the same word as the city rumbled overhead. Caley slid his way through some of the patches where water had frozen, and used his hands against the wall to guide himself. It was only in this relative calm that he realized how tired he was – he had been up all night, and through the dawn. Presently he came across a flow of children of all ages, holding torches. They were in one of the old escape tunnels, a vast arched route that reeked of sewage. A few adults were shouting things to control the kids, but no one seemed to pay much attention to them.

  And the children were all individually whispering the word: ‘Underground . . .’

  Caley released the girl’s hand and moved through the throng until he came across an adult. ‘Hey, mister, what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Mind your language, runt,’ the man replied, pushing back his hood to reveal a bald head. ‘Anyway, I’ve no idea. Took my youngest to read one of them Mythica things—’

  ‘MythMaker,’ Caley corrected.

  ‘That’s right. And he just started going all strange and was insistent we followed him outside. I didn’t want to come, what with all the fighting, but he started screaming, so we came with him, and he brings us down here – and just look at all this!’ He gestured around to the tunnel, and the children who were all marching one way.

  *

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lan demanded. ‘Did you have a plan?’

  ‘MythMaker,’ Vuldon replied.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It was my creation. I made it. Then the priest showed me a way of controlling people’s minds with certain symbols. I knew some kind of shit was kicking off – though I’d no idea it would be this bad – and wanted all the children to get somewhere safe, underground. So I asked Ulryk on how best to do that.’

  Lan didn’t know quite how to respond. ‘And did it work?’

  ‘Can you see many children?’ Vuldon replied.

  They continued through the streets, steering people away. Where buildings had collapsed, Vuldon and Lan inspected the wreckage for any survivors. Where possible, they lifted people out. And strange creatures were walking about the city now, things she could barely comprehend, with two, three, five, nine legs, or sets of eyes, or wings. They had been sent down from the dark structure up above, which now hovered over Villjamur.

  The creatures began attacking civilians – until Vuldon and Lan stepped in.

  Vuldon picked up some discarded military swords, threw one across to Lan. By the time she caught it, Vuldon was hacking into some of the beasts using nothing but raw strength and brutality. Lan joined him, using her powers to step through air as her advantage. She chopped at the creatures in their purple columns of light before they had a chance to reach the ground. Blood splattered over a wide area, while citizens ran for cover.

  In the following hour, Lan and Vuldon moved their way down-city, from the third to the second level, towards the outer walls, slashing down incomprehensibly structured creatures, or guiding people to safety. In the distance, the higher levels of Villjamur were no more. The enormous sets of city gates were open; it looked as though they had been blown apart by some astounding force and, from where they were stood, she watched a tide of humans and rumels pour out towards the refugee camps, into the snow, some travelling on horseback but many on foot.

  ‘Vuldon,’ Lan said, in a sudden pause in combat, ‘what happens when we get out of the city? We’re going to have to steer everyone to safety again. There’ll be tens of thousands of people out there.’

  Vuldon shrugged. ‘Worry about that when we get out.’

  ‘We should join them now,’ Lan said. ‘Look.’

  More and more creatures were descending slowly upon the city, floating down to the streets where they would create carnage. Not even the exotic hybrids she had known in the circus could match these monsters for sheer macabre form. And there were more: it looked like rumels were among their ranks, red-skins, garbed in some alien military attire, and brandishing swords.

  ‘There’s hardly anyone left here to help,’ she said. ‘We should go.’

  For a moment, Vuldon didn’t do anything, and she prodded him again: ‘I feel your need to help people as much as anyone, Vuldon. But seriously, there’s nothing left of this city. And the people outside will need our help.’

  Sunlight streamed across the tide of people, and she moved towards them, ‘Come on, Vuldon.’

  The huge Knight eventually turned to follow her, but then he shot to one side – a small family was backed up against a wall by a former jewellery shop, a woman and three children, while a bruise-coloured attacker with three legs and several arms reared above them. Bearing hideous, vicious rows of teeth, it must have been twice the height of a man. The woman brought her children closer to her, closed her eyes, obviously expecting that death was only seconds away. But Vuldon managed to get there in time: he shouldered the thing’s legs, rolling under it and bringing it down with a colossal groan.

  Lan ran towards the family, and pleaded with them to follow her. As she steered them away from the conflict, she observed another beast emerging from a side street, running towards where Vuldon was struggling with the other one, rage set into its abnormal face, its maw wide.

  The two creatures set upon Vuldon. The Knight lashed out but the creatures were quick. She couldn’t see much of the combat because of the blur of their thick legs, but Vuldon was now on the ground, face down, his blade to one side.

  She gasped and stood still, the family moving on without her. One of the creatures reared up and then stomped on Vuldon: blood pooled beneath him. His form was battered. She moved to help him but stopped as more creatures stumbled to seize this moment: things with three, four, five legs and a thick and shimmering hide. They set upon him with their gaping mouths, rows of teeth picking at him and discarding chunks of flesh to one side. Lan felt sick, wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She backed off, knowing that she could not hope to help Vuldon.

  In the following silence, she heard a foreign language – two redskin rumel soldiers were giving orders to the beasts.

  Tears in her eyes, she ran after the family, and when she caught up with them it took her a while to realize that it was the mother who was now helping her. She placed her arm around Lan and steered her into a vast flow of people, all the while whispering words of encouragement.

  *

  They entered a wide street, the main thoroughfare that led out of the city. Between buildings three or four floors high, hundreds of people from all walks of life were marching with bundles of possessions in their arms, on their backs, or in little handcarts. The noise was intense, the mood morose. Behind them, the destruction of Villjamur was clear to see.

  Not one bridge was still standing. At their ruined edges, figures were waving down for help.
Some – incredibly – were jumping to escape the horrors behind them. People screamed intermittently. Bass groans occasionally marked the collapse of a distant structure. Dust clouds from fallen architecture were coughed out as if the city was on fire. And all the while, the presence in the sky continued to emit shafts of light that delivered savage creatures down to the higher levels.

  Villjamur was no more.

  *

  But from the chaos, came order. Surprisingly, it was people she had seen fighting for the anarchists who were now helping out their former enemies. They were steering people, guiding and directing. Groups had been organized to remove rubble from the main avenue out of the city, and from around the gates of the city. The elderly were helped onto horseback, two per animal, then guided through the throng. Soldiers, too, had joined in with the anarchists, suddenly putting aside their official orders because of the new priorities.

  A fight broke out between Shelby Corporation soldiers and the regular military. All she could glean from the situation was that the Shelby soldiers refused to help out with the evacuation since it was not in their remit, and they hadn’t the training to cope. They skulked out through the gates, protecting no one.

  Lan passed them. She moved through the towering metal gates, burned and melted back around the edges, through enormous city walls, and she could smell the tang of the open countryside, the mud and the rank odours from the refugee camps. People were fleeing in one direction for the most part, along the sanctuary road, though smaller groups peeled off across the snow-covered tundra. And children – so many children were here.

  Lan felt as though a part of her had vanished, that she no longer possessed the ability to aid these people. Lan turned towards the direction of Villreet, and prayed that Fulcrom was already there: he was her only hope for salvaging something from this wreckage.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A hamlet with a population of about a hundred suddenly found itself swelling in numbers – thousands were now travelling through on its narrow mud road, on foot or horseback or bundled up in blankets in the carts.

  Sleet fell strangely by the coast. The warmer onshore breeze forced it horizontally, and it was loaded with a salty tang, drenching the citizens who, wrapped in wax cloaks, shawls or furs, tromped the already muddy road into a quagmire. A village of two streets, or what approximated to streets, had been silently besieged. Locals peered out of their doors, either outraged or confused. Seagulls screamed along the beach and, in the distance, the sea fizzed its way onto the sands.

  Late afternoon, and the sun suddenly revealed itself, creating rainbows – in one direction, that was. In the other lay the crippled ruins of Villjamur, and the landmass above it, which Fulcrom still couldn’t believe could actually hang there – in the sky – without any columns or chains holding it up. Every time he saw a piece of the city fall, and a dust plume rise, he prayed – though he was not a religious man – that Lan and Vuldon would be all right.

  ‘What’s the plan now?’ Tane asked.

  A good question, that, Fulcrom thought.

  Someone had recognized him as an investigator, and even though he claimed he no longer worked for the Inquisition, he found that word instantly spread to dozens of people, and they looked to him for leadership.

  The cloaked figure to one side, Frater Mercury, was hidden from view. Fulcrom didn’t want any suspicion drawn to the figure. He needed to interview the man – if that was indeed possible – to find out what his purpose was. But not yet – not until he had found Lan.

  He stood by the entrance to the village on an upturned crate, and scanned the masses for Vuldon: he would tower above these people by a good foot, but Fulcrom saw only the dreary faces of those who had lost their homes or loved ones.

  And they came in vast numbers, crying or shivering or simply expressionless.

  He stood there for a good hour, his body aching from the bruises. He was aware of a wide open wound on his thigh, conscious that it could become infected, but there were no medical supplies here, no cultists. Frater Mercury, possibly upon seeing the pain in Fulcrom’s expression, moved nearer, his weird half-face showing beneath his hood. Those eyes seemed ageless. He hobbled towards Fulcrom’s leg, and some connection transmitted between their minds, something Fulcrom was barely aware of. Frater Mercury slowly leant down and with a whip of his finger split the material above Fulcrom’s thigh, exposing the crippled flesh to the air. Within a minute, the newcomer’s fingers were at work within his flesh, and they moved at lightning speed. Using no materials other than the thick rumel skin, Frater Mercury patched up Fulcrom’s thigh – and then rested a hot palm to the surface, cauterizing the wound, but Fulcrom felt no pain. After the act, the hand withdrew, leaving the flesh as good as new.

  ‘That’s a miracle,’ Fulcrom said, his breath clouding the air.

  Without saying a word, Frater Mercury backed off and resumed his motionless stance.

  ‘Tane,’ Fulcrom said, ‘would you head out there to see if you can spot Lan?’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, and went into the throng.

  ‘There’s no need!’ shouted a voice. Tane turned back to see Lan file in alongside him.

  Fulcrom stepped down from his crate. He overcompensated, expecting some signs of strain in his leg, and immediately slipped in the mud, falling to one knee when that didn’t happen. Lan came over to him with a wry smile. ‘It’s a bit early for a proposal don’t you think?’

  She lifted him up and pulled herself in to embrace him. Fulcrom’s heart thumped. He didn’t want to let her go – not any more. Her cheeks were cold, and she wasn’t wearing any outer layers – just her stained Knights uniform. Tane had found a shawl and placed it on Lan’s shoulders, and Fulcrom nodded his thanks to him. They must have been there for a good minute before anyone spoke.

  ‘Where’s Vuldon?’ Tane asked.

  Lan bowed her head and didn’t reply.

  ‘Is he still there?’ Tane pressed.

  ‘Later,’ Fulcrom cautioned, and held up his hand.

  They all turned to regard the explosion in the distance, too late to see whatever blast caused the remains of Villjamur to turn to fire. Clouds had recently drifted away from the city, exposing the landmass above in its full glory.

  It was something quite macabre, a ragged floating island of black spires, around which creatures were fluttering – he imagined them to be immense.

  ‘The gods help us. That floating fortification – it’s moved, I swear. It’s simply so large and moving so slowly, I haven’t noticed until now, but its position has moved.’

  Frater Mercury began pulling Fulcrom’s sleeve, and he untangled himself from Lan.

  Gods can’t help. Maybe I can. We need to talk. The words seemed planted in his head. Fulcrom nodded. ‘Come on.’

  They walked to one of the nearest houses, a one-storey wooden shack painted bright green. There was a measly excuse for a front garden, full of dead or decaying flowers, and a small porch. Fulcrom marched them all up the steps and banged on the door.

  There was no answer, so Lan moved in and kicked it open. A wiry looking fisherman stood up from his table and issued expletives.

  ‘Villjamur Inquisition,’ Fulcrom announced, and gestured for him to get back. The man meekly stood aside and they commandeered the table. Frater Mercury followed them in.

  The room was basic: a round table, a few wooden chairs, landscape paintings, an old iron-framed mirror and a rust-encrusted stove.

  Sitting down carefully, Lan looked at them, meeting Tane’s searching gaze with a sad frown, ‘Vuldon’s dead.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Fulcrom gasped.

  Lan nodded. ‘He died saving a family. We were on our way out. I couldn’t do anything.’ Her gaze fell to the table.

  Fulcrom placed a hand on her arm. ‘It’s OK, we can talk about it later.’

  Tane remained silent and aghast.

  ‘Death is not always the end,’ Frater Mercury spoke suddenly. His accent was strained, his w
ords pronounced slowly and clearly as if reading the words from some distant tapestry. ‘His bodily pieces. Bring them. I repair.’

  ‘Who and what are you?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘Why did the priest bring you here, and where is he?’

  ‘Priest?’

  ‘Ulryk,’ Fulcrom said.

  There was the flicker of expression on Frater Mercury’s face. ‘You have no . . .’ idea who I am, the voice continued in Fulcrom’s head. Could Lan hear too? Her expression indicated this was the case.

  Villjamur, my word she has grown. She was a village like this when I left. Ulryk has brought me back to this realm safely. He has been consigned to the book – a momentary cost. You must take me away from this place. The Policharos will move.

  ‘The what?’

  The Policharos in the sky. It will move. It will come for these people. It will eradicate them, and you. But not me, no – I had hoped to re-enter this Archipelago at a more suitable location. Of all the Wayfarer Towers, the priest chose the one in Villjamur where, it seems, plans were already afoot to invade.

  ‘Pretty ungrateful towards a man who summoned you.’

  I haven’t the patience! The mirror on the wall shattered, everyone looked at each other, afraid. Take me to your elders.

  ‘We have no elders. If you mean superiors, there are none – the city was destroyed. For all I know, the Emperor and the Council with it.’

  There are movements in the east. Take me there.

  ‘We know little about that,’ Lan said. ‘There was a war near Villiren, that’s what was said in People’s Observer – and where most of the military have been sent.’

  Yes. Your people were successful. And have met others who can help – people who worship me. They seek an alliance. Your former ruler is alive.

  ‘Urtica?’

  No, the woman.

  ‘Rika . . .’ Fulcrom said. ‘This changes everything.’

  Yes. We all must move now.