The Darkest Tower
Unwithering Realm 2
John C. Wright
Copyright
The Darkest Tower
John C. Wright
Castalia House
Kouvola, Finland
www.castaliahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental
Copyright © 2017 by John C. Wright
All rights reserved
Editor: Vox Day
Cover: Steve Beaulieu
Version: 00a
Contents
The Oubliette of the Air
The Lord of Magicians
Falconress and Marineress
Not Quite Saint Anthony
Born of the Forever Nature
The Stream-Path of the Unclean Servants
Rational Animals
The Oubliette of the Air
1. Blank Spot
I don’t remember the impact.
If my brains scattered out of my skull like the yolk of a dropped egg, and recorded no memories until they slowly slurped back inside as bone re-grew and reassembled, and particles of blood magically or magnetically re-gathered into me, that I do not know. That would have been cool, though.
Freaky gross, but cool.
2. The Cell
I woke up naked in a cylindrical cage whose sides were black metal and whose floor was bright lampwood. The planks formed a circular platform suspended over a few miles of empty air. The lampwood planks were glowing with a cold, bright blue and ceaseless light, painful to the eye, neon-bright, annoying. Around the big hole in the floor there was no railing and no sign saying WATCH YOUR STEP.
The curve of the wall was covered with hundreds of inward-pointing spikes, like the inside-out version of one of Mom’s hair curlers or Dad’s lawn aerator.
I had a headache, and it was darn cold, and the air was too thin to breathe.
Below freezing.
What woke me, beside the cold, was a sound in the background of wind hissing or yowling or droning or screeching like the high string on a fiddle. It fell silent near where I was, but then a moment later I could hear it dimly either half a mile or two miles below me, or half a mile or two miles above. The tortured voice of the wind changed pitch and location and volume, but never fell silent.
I stood, looking for an escape. It was an ugly place.
This circle of floor slanted slightly toward the hole. I wished I had a coin or a BB to drop, so that I could have checked to see if the slant was something I was imagining, or was real.
I was going to get to know that glowing wood quite well. The entire space where I lived and moved and suffered my continued existence was a narrow zero of glowing wood surrounding a long drop into nothingness.
The walls of the cage I inspected for joints or weak spots or the seam of a door. The spikes were nine inches long, made of some alloy I did not recognize, and evenly spaced across each part of the wall, all pointing inward. So huddling up against the wall to minimize the chance of rolling over in your sleep and falling out the hole was discouraged.
Even as I stood, one of the spikes started slowly to expand like a telescoping rod or a car jack. I moved out of the way before it pushed me into the hole, staring in wonder. Magical growing metal? It was not the weirdest thing I had seen today, but it was weird because it seemed so silent, so sinister, so unnatural.
When I moved, another spike started to unfold very slowly behind me. I never heard any footsteps or voices behind the wall indicating a pikeman was shoving the pikes. Maybe the system was on automatic. If so, there was no resting inside this cage. Every few minutes, you’d have to move. So, no one could sleep here.
There was no pattern to it. The darn things were completely silent. There was no clicking or ticking an honest machine would make to warn you. Sometimes they opened quickly, too quickly to dodge, and at other times, so slowly that you could not see them growing.
The roof also had a round opening in it, directly above the hole in the floor. There was a tic-tac-toe grating of four rather thin bars that looked to me like they’d be easy to bend. The thinness of those bars almost taunted me with how easy it should be to climb out.
In a circle around the edge of this upper hole was a ring of bright gold, twisted like a Moebius strip. A twilight gate? Above that was another chamber or area. I could only catch a glimpse of a patch of its ceiling directly above me, with an arched vault of black brick.
All I had to do was wait until the random pattern of expanding spikes gave me enough of a grip to get to the top. I shook my head and snorted. Was it really going to be this easy?
It wasn’t.
There was a moment when more than four spikes at four different heights off the floor were telescoped out to their full length, and I saw my chance, and used the rods like an impromptu ladder, trying to make for that opening.
Then a rod unfolding as fast as an arrow from a string jabbed into my abdomen, and blood and viscera poured out, and my arms and legs jerked, and another rod unfolded laterally, so that it caught me across the midriff as the first rod yanked back, slipping me as neatly off the spike as you might push a meatball off your fork with your knife. All the rods were retracted at once; there was no more makeshift ladder, nothing to grab, only a long fall underfoot.
Down I plunged.
3. The First Exit
I was not too worried, insane as that might sound. I figured I would splatter somewhere in the landscape far away from the base of the tower, pull myself slowly together, rest, and walk on out of there. Maybe I would find an unwatched clothesline or a lonely farmer’s cottage where I could get some clothing. I remember I actually laughed at how easy it would be for an unkillable boy to escape an open cage, and I folded my arms behind my head, and crossed my legs, as I toppled end over end through the stratosphere.
I spread my arms and legs, so that the world stopped spinning. There were clouds pushed across the walls of the Dark Tower, which looked like an icebreaker drifting through the sea. I saw the world, a patchwork quilt of green and brown, far underfoot.
The wind caught me like a leaf, and blew me against the metal towerside, long before I hit the clouds so far below, or hit the world.
There were nets strung up to catch me and break my fall, and men in Bronze-Age looking spacesuits or diving helmets with harpoons were waiting to close the net and beat me senseless. I woke up in the cell again.
No one came to speak to me that day. No one gave me food or drink. The thirst started really getting to me. The very smallest hint of what it meant to be from the Order of Those Who Yearn in Vain for Death was beginning to nag and grow at the back of my mind.
That night, I fell again. Some spear had poked and pushed me over the side into the abyss of air. I had no recollection of falling asleep: I was just too exhausted to stay awake. I woke from dreams of flying to the dizzy horror of an endless fall. I saw the stars above and the city lights below.
I did not see the men waiting for me this time. In the distance, I saw lanterns on the top of tall brass helmets, which turned toward me like spectators at a tennis match as I zoomed past them. Perhaps I missed the net, or there was not one this time. Someone or something harpooned me as I flew past dark balconies and walls at terminal velocity, and the barbed heads sank into my flesh, and the long
lines sang and went tight, and I slammed against the side of the Dark Tower and felt every bone in my body break.
How had they known both times the exact spot where I would fall? Between the wind, and even little things like my orientation as I fell, or whether I extended my limbs or pulled them in, would have changed my point of impact by thousands of feet.
And I woke in the cell again. No one was there.
They did not put me in casts or splints: I lay there with both arms and both legs broken, compound fractures sticking out of my skin, and the only medicine was me trying to push broken bones back together with my unaided, naked fingers. I had to try to straighten a broken arm with my other broken arm to get the bone ends back in place, or push the joint back into the socket.
There was no morphine, no aspirin, no nurses, no voices.
And there was nothing else in the cell. No soap to whittle into the shape of a gun, and no guard to fool with it. No floor to dig under to dig my way out.
Days passed, and nights, and I never slept longer than dazed naps, and lost track of time.
And the spikes never stopped expanding, never formed a pattern, and so, even with both arms and legs broken, I had to keep moving, despite the blinding pain, or else get pushed out of the hole again.
I was there for an eternity.
4. Gazing Down the Dark Tower
Yes, I had plenty of time to stare down that hole. From the distance between the cage and the Dark Tower wall, I figured the birdcage was suspended on some sort of really long yardarm, hanging out over an abyss of air.
By day, I gazed and pondered.
I counted the points of the bastions and made geometric calculations in my head, wishing I had something to write on. I stared at the ravelins and redoubts, bonnettes and lunettes, tenailles and tenaillons, counterguards and crownworks and hornworks and curvettes and fausse brayes and scarps and cordons and banquettes and counterscarps.
The main tower itself, I eventually deduced, was an octakaidecagon with a triangular bastion at each vertex. What looked like complex outerworks were actually part of the shield wall, connected by bridges or built as one piece.
This indicated that this world had some form of big guns, because there is no point in an architect calculating out so many zones of redundant overlapping fields of fire, if he expects the Tower to repel besiegers armed with nothing more than pikes and arrows. But it also suggested this world did not have the sophisticated weapons of our world. A hydrogen bomb would crack any tower like that in half; I don’t care what sort of metal it is made of.
By night, I studied the lights.
There were no lamps or spotlights on the Dark Tower. Hence the name, I guess. But from time to time, at dusk or dawn, I would see some sort of lines or channels or canals running straight up the sides. The same bluish light which had suddenly flamed inside the chamber where I had been caught was shining from these canals, but so dimly that they seemed like darkness made visible, illuminating nothing.
What was that blue light? A defense against escaped clouds of Uncreation? Perhaps so, because I never felt the least stirring of the Oobleck I had once swallowed. I assume they cut it out of my stomach before I woke. That is what I would have done.
At right angles to these channels, vast battlements or balconies like roadways circumvallated the diameter of the tower. Tiny patches of green and squares and threads of blue told me that there were gardens filling some of the balconies visible far below me. These were immense plots bigger than football fields, but so far away as to seem like the gardens and fountains of a dollhouse in a little girl’s room.
The air must have been thicker down there, or perhaps the gardeners had a technology for sustaining greenery above thirty thousand feet. Vines of ivy and grapes and orchids growing along the coils of lianas hung over the side of these immense battlements, beards of green reaching down from each of these crenellated brinks.
I saw petals cast by the thin, high ice-winds of the stratosphere drifting and dripping down, in a constant and intermittent confetti. The sense of desolation that comes to some men in autumn touched my soul.
I wondered idly if those blossoms, freezing once they left whatever zone of magic must have been protecting them near the tower, would turn to hailstones as they fell, reach terminal velocity, and whether they would burn up with re-entry heat, or if we were down low enough that they would only drift for miles on the winds before striking pets, livestock, and innocent bystanders with the speed and penetration of a rifle bullet.
I said battlements in the plural. I could see them one above the other, each one separated vertically by about the height of the Empire State Building. I counted fifteen before the distance blurred them into oneness.
At night, I could see the warm and friendly lights of a square supermetropolis gathered at the foot of the tower, surrounded on each side by four smaller squares of suburbs.
The city by day was a brown-gray blur too far away to make out any details. But whoever built it, and landscaped the lands around it, loved squares. All the farmlands were cut into squares. Bisecting the view was an immense canal running right through the center of the city, straight as a yardstick. There was a river to the west, and another to the east, connected by this canal. I assume the canal was busy with traffic that I was too high up to see. South was a haze of blue I took to be a sea or great lake. There was not much by way of hills or mountains down below.
I hated their urban planners. Who builds a city like an abstract problem in geometry, with no soft or curving contours for the flow of rivers, or the irregularities of coastlines?
The walls of the cage extended downward past the level of the wooden platform of the floor another ten feet or so, restricting my view of the world outside to a circle smaller than the horizon. I could not see the sky, the constellations, the phases of the moon, or measure the change in the location of sunrise, or do anything else clever prisoners like the Count of Monte Cristo could do to determine the month and season.
I tried to guess the seasons of the year by counting the hours of the daylight. Yes, I mean I started at dawn, “one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…” and counted every second until dusk, and I did that every four days, trying to calculate the difference in the length of the day to get a sense of what time of year it was, whether it was before or after the solstice.
I kept expecting the landscape to change color as the season passed, whatever season it was, to get white if winter came, or brown in summer, or to see some difference in the texture or tint of all those endless quilts of plantations down there. It never happened.
I could use the shadow of the Dark Tower as an immense sundial, however. The dark strip fell across the landscape, running west at sunrise, east at sunset. Someone else must have had the same idea, because I began to pick out what must have been truly immense ziggurats or pyramids crouching outside the city across the endless plains of pasture and farmland and forest so far below. They were almost too tiny for me to see, but I assume from the way they were spaced that there were twelve of them. A simple way for everyone living in the city to tell the hours. I assume that this world, this timeline, separated its history from ours sometime after the twelve-hour day was established.
From time to time I saw below me condensation trails cutting through the thin blue air. At first I thought they were jet contrails, but no. This was the condensation of invasion machines spearing through the atmosphere at high speed. I saw no airplanes nor helicopters of any type.
But I saw blimps.
Low down on the tower, at the edge of my vision, I spied dockyards and mooring arms for airships, zeppelins like the Hindenburg.
And it is a sure sign that you are in a parallel world, and maybe a more peaceful one than our home Earth, if you see airships.
There is no sound technical reason why they were not developed in our history: it was the Second World War that interfered with their development. They are less useful than airplanes in war, because they
are large and slow targets, but in commerce, they can haul more, for less fuel, at higher ceilings, than those early commercial planes. Who knows what modern materials and space-age engineering might have accomplished, had the war not grounded all the Zeppelins, or war tensions removed helium from the world market?
Did I mention Tillamook once boasted the largest airship factory in the world, before the war? So, to natives of my town, the question of airships has always been a little sensitive.
But I never saw any people moving on the Tower balconies itself. Maybe they were too far away. I never saw lights, not even when an airship was mooring or lofting.
No one came to question me. No jailer.
Nothing.
5. The Eternity
I was imprisoned in one little cell for a long, long time. I will not tell you how long, because the number would be misleading. It was long enough for broken bones to heal, be broken and heal again.
Yes, eventually I got out, so technically it was not an eternity. But I want you to imagine that I never got out, and that I was there forever, because that is what it felt like.
Every inch of the wall, every stud and clamp where the metal panels were hammered into place, every line of grain in the woodwork of the floor, the position of every needle on every bar of the cell, and, above all, that light, that hideous, unwinking, blue light that was shining on me day and night—all these things are carved into my memory the way drops of water, falling one after another, wear a hole in a stone. I won’t tell you how long it was, but it was long enough, that if you asked me to draw the pattern of grains on the third board counterclockwise from the one with a knothole in it, I could.
I tried to figure out the pattern of the spike thrusts, counting the seconds between when one spike telescoped out and the next, made bets with myself as to which of the spikes would open next.
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