Amazingly, though, the red-eyed man staggered, but remained standing.
Dulac finally caught up, his left shoulder bleeding freely from an enormous gash, but his right hand still firmly gripping the hilt of his blue blade. As the red-eyed man lurched forward, swinging his scarlet sword at Taylor, Dulac managed to deflect the blow, knocking the red sword aside.
Miss Bonaventure leapt to Dulac's side, holding Blank's cast-off sword-stick in a two-handed grip. Dulac swayed on his feet, and as he struggled to regain his balance the red-eyed man swung at Miss Bonaventure. Incredibly, the red-eyed man's swung missed by a large margin, whirling harmlessly through the empty air, and Miss Bonaventure was able to lash out with the sword-stick and swat the back of the red-eyed man's arm. Unfortunately, her cut failed to loose the sword from his grip, but compiled with the shots Taylor had fired it seemed to have a cumulative effect.
The red-eyed man looked for a moment at the crystal lying on the floor, something of longing in his unreadable expression, and at the woman and men who stood between him and it. And then, without further exchange, and still having uttered not a single word, the red-eyed man turned and raced away, his steps thundering through the empty pavilion.
Galaad
THE WHITE LADY HAD SAID that within the tower of glass lay the Unworld. At the time, Galaad'd had no notion what she had meant. Now he was beginning to suspect.
Stepping through the glass wall, he had found himself beside Artor and the others in the middle of a large open space. Glancing back, he didn't see the tower wall but only emptiness for some hundred feet or so, ending in an irregular, dark wall. Another wall, twin to the first, was a hundred feet or so in front of them, while to the right and left the space continued as far as the eye could see. The only difference in the two walls that Galaad could discern was that the one in front seemed to curve slightly away from them, while the one behind curved slightly towards them. It was as if they stood at one side of a large, enclosed circle.
Disturbingly, though, the circumference of this circle was clearly larger than the tower in which it was contained. Galaad's mind could not encompass the possibilities that single fact suggested.
The distances swallowed any sound, no echoes of footsteps or words rebounding off the far walls, and when they spoke, their words sounded strange, somewhat distorted. The light was dim, the hazy gray of twilight, and the air was still and cold.
“Where are we?” Caius asked, looking around, his eyes wide and alarmed.
“The Unworld,” Artor answered, his jaw set.
“Whatever that means,” Lugh spat.
Galaad felt somewhat queasy and laid a hand on his stomach, his insides in revolt. But after a moment, the feeling of uneasiness passed. Galaad caught a glimpse of the back of his hand, which glinted silvery for a moment and then was restored to its normal hue. He remembered the mantle the White Phantom had given them and wondered whether the state of his constitution had anything to do with it.
“Which way, Artor?” Pryder asked, his features limned in the blue glow of his skyblade.
“Any way is as good as any,” Artor said, glancing from one side to the other. At random, he pointed to their right. “That direction.”
Pryder nodded and stalked off to the right. “I shall be the vanguard,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Artor, expressing some vestigial need for permission, though it was clear that Pryder had long since decided to follow his own course.
Artor merely nodded, clearly recognizing the Gwentian's need for movement, his hunger for revenge.
As they walked, the wall to their left curved away, the wall to their right curved in, so that they followed a semicircular path. From time to time on the inner wall there appeared what seemed to be large, oddly shaped doors, though these did not have any evident hinges or handles, and the five could not work out how to open them. They continued on, passing these unusual doors every few dozen paces, each as barred and impassable as the last.
The sound of their footsteps was the only noise they could hear, and even these were muffled by the vastness of the surrounding space. From time to time Galaad would feel another bout of nausea coupled with a sudden weariness, but these passed just as quickly with no continuing ill effects. From the expressions the others periodically took on, Galaad could see he was not the only one to be experiencing these occasional episodes.
At one point, a black bird flew by high overhead, heading in the opposite direction. Its raucous call was oddly comforting, something so familiar in so strange a place.
It seemed that they must have walked in a complete circuit, so long did they march, though with one stretch of the curved corridor no different than the rest it was impossible to distinguish one point from another. Galaad wondered whether they would just circle, indefinitely, until hunger, thirst, and fatigue took them.
Suddenly, just ahead, one of the unusually shaped doors opened. There was a hiss, like that of a snake, like air escaping a bladder, and bright lights shone out into the darkened corridor.
Before the five could react, a metallic monster crabbed into view. It had jointed legs, like a spider's, seven in total, and a diamond-shaped head that craned above its squat body on a long neck. There was no mouth, but a single baleful glass eye of the deepest red set in the middle of the head, facing towards them. But for the eye, the monster was covered completely in what appeared to be metal, silvery and shining.
The metal monster regarded them for a moment as the five spread out in a line, weapons at the ready, but before Artor and his men were able to react, a beam of scarlet light shot from the red eye, striking Caius.
The tall captain was immediately engulfed in flames, reduced to ashes between one heartbeat and the next.
Galaad opened his mouth to cry out, but Lugh reacted faster. He had pulled the glass apple from his belt with his silver hand, and rearing back he threw it at the monster's head with all his strength. The strange fruit struck the monster's red eye, and in a shower of crystalline fragments both apple and eye were reduced to dust.
The monster was rendered blind, or so it seemed, and Lugh pressed the advantage, rushing forward, his skyblade held in his hand, and gave the metal creature his answer. The blue blade bit through the monster's body, cleaving it in two.
But there was no time to celebrate his victory, for as the two halves of the metal monster fell on either side, some strange light seemed to coruscate from the severed metal, dancing like lightning, and lashed out, engulfing Lugh. The Gael howled in agony as the blast knocked him from his feet and he was sent flying through the air an impossible distance. He struck the irregular outer wall of the corridor and immediately vanished from view.
“No!” Artor shouted, and raced to the point where Lugh had vanished. But when he reached it, he found the wall as cold and solid as it had always been, his hands meeting only resistance. There was no sign of Lugh's passing, no sign that he had ever been.
Of Caius, there was a more concrete reminder. A pile of ashes heaped on the smooth floor of the corridor, little bits of bone and teeth flecked within. His disk lay beside the heap, unmarked, and his bloodflame lance had rolled a short distance away, untouched by the flames.
And then there were three.
Alice
Alice fell through whiteness. Beside her, the raven flapped its black wings, uselessly, but didn't say a word. There was no sound, only the white light all around, and the weightless sensation of falling.
Then Alice hit the ground.
The raven squawked, sounding like a raven instead of a helium-sucking baby-monster, and flew off around the slow bend of the corridor.
It took Alice a moment for her eyes to adjust.
She was in a corridor of some kind, the dark walls some two hundred feet apart, curving to the right and left in the distance. The ceiling overhead was almost invisible in the gloom. She wasn't sure where the light was coming from. It was almost as if the air itself was glowing, since the walls and ceiling were lost in dark
ness, but the space around Alice was faintly lit. It was a gray light, though, like dusk or twilight.
Alice climbed to her feet, rubbing her bruised ass. She turned and looked in either direction. Stillman and the Huntsman, the ravens and the dogs, the footbridge and Canary Wharf and London were nowhere to be seen.
“Where the fuck…?”
This wasn't one of her visions, she was reasonably sure. It just didn't feel like one. Had she blacked out on the bridge during a seizure and been brought here? But where was here? And where was Stillman? Had the Huntsman overpowered him, killed him even, and taken Alice off to some underground tunnel?
Alice held up her hands. Her empty hands. She didn't have the gem. It wasn't on the floor around her. Maybe the Huntsman had pocketed it while she was out?
None of this made any sense.
Without warning, a sudden spasm of nausea doubled her over, her gut clenching.
This was worse than mixing her meds and alcohol. This felt bad.
In a moment, the sick feeling passed, leaving Alice weak and sweating.
“Okay, so this is strange and unpleasant.”
Alice walked closer to the right-hand wall, the inner side of the curve. There was some kind of door, but she didn't see any way to get it open. She closed the distance, but after several minutes of trying, the door remaining stubbornly shut.
She should have held on to the sword. As if the Huntsman would have let her keep it, of course.
But then, if the Huntsman had brought her here during a blackout, why bring the raven along as well? And how weird that she'd hallucinated a raven falling with her, only to find the raven here at her side when she came out of it.
So maybe she hadn't blacked out?
Which meant…What? That she'd fallen?
She thought about Stillman's talk of other universes, of Iain Temple talking about fissures in space-time.
Whatever.
“Hello!” Alice cupped her hands and shouted. No answer.
She shrugged. Might as well see what she could see. She started walking to the left, following the curve of the wall. There was bound to be an open door, somewhere.
Galaad
Pryder took Caius's fallen disk for his own, while Galaad, at Artor's insistence, had armed himself with Caius's bloodflame lance.
The door through which the metal monster appeared had closed after it passed through, and nothing the trio could do managed to wrench it open again. And so they continued on.
On they walked, and on, the only sound their muffled footsteps and the rhythm of their breath.
When they must have walked for an hour or more since the encounter with the metal monster, Galaad was sure that they had completed yet another circuit, but no matter how far they walked, they never again came upon the remains of Caius or the severed halves of the metal monster.
“I don't like this,” Pryder said at last, when they paused briefly to take small sips of what little water remained in the flasks they carried. “We walk in endless circles, like animals pacing a cage, and come no nearer our quarry.”
“Perhaps we should return the way we have come,” Artor said, a helpless tone creeping into his voice. “That door opened for the metal beast; perhaps it will open again and we can be there waiting.”
Galaad wanted to object, to say that they'd surely already retraced their steps and passed that same door, the remains of their brief battle having been cleared in their absence, but he saw the haunted look on Pryder's face and kept his peace.
They walked back, an hour and more, and to Galaad's amazement they eventually saw the fallen monster and the ash pile of Caius's remains coming into view around the curve of the wall. It was maddening, seeming that the spot could be approached from this side and not the other. Did the corridors spiral up or downwards, so that they had actually reached another level on completing a circuit? It hardly seemed likely, since there was no appreciable gradient to the floor beneath their feet, but he could think of no other answer.
The trio waited what seemed an eternity beside the closed door, kneeling down, watchful for any sign of its opening, but were rewarded only with still silence. Then, unexpectedly, they heard muffled footsteps approaching from behind.
They leapt to their feet, and whirled with weapons in hand, to find a figure approaching from around the bend.
Galaad at first took it to be a youth, but as the figure drew nearer, eyes wide with fear, he could see that it was a woman. Or a maid, to be precise, perhaps a few years his junior. Her hair, so dark as to be black, was cut short, and she wore a short coat of black leather over a close-fitting white tunic, with tight blue breeches on her legs and heavy black boots encasing her feet. She was unarmed, and seemed to present little threat to the trio, evidently on the edge of terror, or shock.
She slowed her approach as the trio came into view, and warily addressed them in some strange language, which to Galaad's ears had the same sound as those the Red King had spoken.
“Who are you?” Artor demanded in Britannic. Then, at her evident confusion, he repeated in Latin, “Who are you?”
The maid seemed to understand the Latin a little better, but seemed no less confused for all of that, appearing to struggle to find the words to answer.
Galaad took a step forward, reaching out to the maid. “Do you need help?” he said, gently.
Gentle or no, when the maid saw Galaad's approach, fear flashed in her eyes.
“Enough of this,” Pryder barked, brandishing his skyblade. “I want answers!” He advanced on the maid, angrily.
Seeing Pryder approach, a dark expression on his face, the maid started, shouting out in alarm, and took to her heels, running off in the opposite direction.
“Come on, after her!” Pryder shouted back over his shoulder, sprinting.
Artor and Galaad could only exchange uneasy glances and hurry along after him.
The maid could not have been more than a short distance ahead of them, just beyond the curve of the wall, but no matter how fast they ran, they didn't overtake her, and never again were they to catch sight of the maid of the Unworld.
Alice
“Okay, that was seriously weird,” Alice said, breathless.
She'd run away from the three guys with the swords, only to find one of the big doors she'd passed only moments before was now open. She'd ducked inside, and the door shut behind her. Only now, hands on her knees, was she finally able to catch her breath.
What had those guys been, medieval knights? Roman soldiers? And what language was that? Part of it almost sounded like Latin, but not like any pronunciation Alice had learned in school.
Now that she'd caught her breath, and the sword-wielding guys hadn't come bursting through the door, Alice had a chance to look around and take in her surroundings.
A narrow passageway led from the door, the walls featureless and bare. Unable to open the door behind her even if she wanted to—which she didn't—Alice shrugged and walked up the hallway. A little way in it jogged to the right, then back to the left, then branched into two more hallways.
It was a maze.
Alice knew mazes.
Running her fingertips along the right-hand wall, she followed, seeing where it led.
Galaad
The trio ate a meager meal on the corridor floor, munching disconsolately on the few remaining scraps of dried meat that remained in their packs, rationing their remaining reserves of water. They rested for a time, their legs and backs aching, though whether they slept for hours or merely dozed for moments, it was impossible to say. When they woke, they continued on, now testing each door they passed, spending hours trying to pry the door open, to wedge their weapons into the near seamless cracks between door and jamb, all without any success.
It seemed an eternity, but at last, they rounded the curve of the inner wall and found one of the doors open and inviting.
Light streamed from within. They entered, weapons in hand.
Alice
Several m
ore times the nausea overtook her, but eventually Alice found herself at the edge of an enormous space, dominated by two giant figures, one red and one white, crouched on either side of a huge chessboard. Between them, the silvery-metal and glass pieces, each of them at least twenty feet tall, moved on their own, back and forth across the board.
At first, Alice thought the giant figures were statues, but then the white one moved. A large outcropping on top, that might conceivably have been meant to be a head, turned towards her. It didn't have anything like eyes, but Alice knew that the thing was looking at her. She felt her skin crawl.
Then, Alice heard a clattering noise behind her and turned to see a seven-legged metal spider-thing come crab-walking out of the maze, with a red-lensed camera at the end a long craning neck. It was some sort of robot thing and was coming straight for her.
Alice didn't stop to converse but turned and took off running across the chessboard, dodging around the towering pieces of silver and glass.
The spider robot was quicker, though, and before Alice was even a few squares in, it was on her, wrapping one of its long segmented legs around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.
Alice tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then, mercifully, everything went black.
“The sample wakes.”
The voice buzzed in her brain without passing through her ears.
She was surrounded by whiteness on all sides, and falling.
“The sample's memories have been studied and recorded. The Dialectic has gained knowledge of the sample's language. These words are being implanted directly in the sample's mind.”
“What…what's this…? Who are you?” Alice's voice sounded raspy and hoarse in her own ears.
“The Dialectic is the governance of the Change Engine. A sample is retrieved, examined, and altered experimentally. The results are…inconclusive. A new sample is needed, and the first sample will be kept in suspension, pending further examination.”
End of the Century Page 46
