Arcana Universalis: Danse Macabre

by Chris J. Randolph

  He’d never dressed this way himself, and he was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable and unrestrictive the outfit proved to be.

  When he had everything properly situated, Vinton motioned for him to follow with a callous gesture, and they left the lab. They crossed the silent mausoleum, passed through its morbid gateway, and proceeded along the arterial tunnels which led away from Aldebaran’s domain.

  They came quickly to the transit tube, which connected the Ashkalon’s shield-arm to her primary hull along the top of the blade-like wing. The structure was aesthetically stunning, offering an excellent view of the outside through glass bubbles in the ceiling and strips of triangular windows which lined the walls like a mosaic. Caleb could see the intricately engraved and shimmering outer-skin of the Ashkalon from there, its surface like something molten and roiling frozen forever in place, while the hollow vastness of space stretched out endlessly beyond it.

  He’d spent so long cooped up in the dark roost and the claustrophobic service tunnels that looking upon the void made him shudder with momentary vertigo; it was the terrible feeling of the infinite pressing in on him from all sides, forcefully reminding him that he was but a speck upon the back of an already insignificant speck. But despite that feeling, despite the way it taunted and teased him, Caleb stared with wide eyed wonder at the stars and darkness, curious what strange mysteries they yet contained.

  At the tube’s far end, Caleb and his chaperon entered the primary hull and its crowded, torch-lit passages. Normal day-to-day traffic surrounded them there—dour workman, sullen pack animals, and bundle after bundle of goods—and Caleb found the throngs of the living oddly unsettling. He was actually thankful for the robes which kept his scarred form concealed from their dull but suspicious eyes.

  The two journeyed up through the many layers of the ship into territory totally unknown to Caleb, climbing switchback staircases whose bannisters and arched ceilings grew increasingly ornate as they progressed. During his time as an apprentice, the upper decks of the Ashkalon had been off-limits, and he knew as little about their layout as he did about the ship’s keep, where the magi made their homes.

  Most of the other magi, Caleb corrected himself, but not all of them. Aldebaran’s facilities were located far from the keep, and the same was true of one other.

  That thought took hold just as they reached their destination, and he understood finally where Vinton had led him.

  The door to the atrium was a face carved of stone, half again the height of a man, its lips thick and betraying no emotion, its eyes dreamily half-lidded, and its heavy brow perfectly smooth. The overall effect was of total, perhaps even trance-like, relaxation.

  Vinton turned to Caleb. “Listen closely, dead man. You will approach when summoned and offer the invictus a bow. You will not speak. You will do as commanded promptly and without hesitation, not one iota more nor less.”

  Caleb nodded but Vinton had already turned his attention elsewhere. The apprentice stepped into a circular theloglyph carved in the floor and kneeled in the center of it. In the next moment, subtle movements flashed across his body which would be invisible to an eye less acute than Caleb’s. Muscles twitched, the tendons of his pale neck tightened, and then the stone face before him rumbled, groaned, and lifted up into the hollow cavity above it.

  “Go,” Vinton said through gritted teeth.

  Caleb strode into the waiting dark and the stone face lowered again behind him. The tunnel ahead zigged and zagged around stone half-walls which had been extruded out from either side. This was another method of baffling energies which would effectively insulate the invictus from outside interference, at the same time keeping his immense power safely contained.

  Caleb marched purposefully through the tunnel, not knowing what to expect on the other side. He’d heard stories of the outlandish ways invicti decorated their private atriums, but these were all whispered rumours and legends whose foundation in reality were doubtful. For instance, Caynos Tremain, first invictus of the Imperial Broadsword Calibourn, was said to have lined the walls of his atrium with the desiccated corpses of his slain foes, while Shiriz Shin Alouran, invictus of the Imperial Dragonslayer Sulfikar, supposedly made the grounds of his atrium into a forest of golden blades.

  With these eccentric images and more in mind, Caleb was never-the-less surprised at what he found. The atrium was a circular chamber some fifty yards across, with a high dome built upon an elaborate, almost organic, brass framework. The dome held countless glass panels in concentric rings which laid bare the star-speckled vault of eternity beyond. Meanwhile, the grounds below were a lovely and serene garden divided into four equal wedges that each contained a single cherry tree. A steady stream of blossoms drifted down lazily from their branches, standing out starkly (even in Caleb’s colour-deprived vision) from the lush and well manicured grass.

  Caleb stopped at the tunnel’s mouth and waited. The cobblestone path under his feet led to the center of the atrium where it met three other such paths, connected to three other such tunnels. At their crossing sat Malcolm, invictus of the Imperial Dragonslayer Ashkalon, dressed as always in a loose charcoal-coloured robe that was tied at the waste with a sash of crimson silk. To Caleb’s eye, the man seemed to be at peace so complete that no force in the universe could perturb it.

  Caleb had glimpsed the invictus several times before, but every sight of him remained as peculiar as the first. His skin was the creamy white of an oleander’s flesh, and whiter still was the long hair that cascaded down to his shoulders like a forest waterfall. His features were overtly masculine but refined, with high cheekbones, a deeply cleft chin, and a thin, angular nose. Twisting tribal scars marked his forehead and cheeks, and their style would indicate that he came originally from Gregolith, the so-called storm world.

  Malcolm looked up. “Approach,” he said in a voice both smooth and melodic. Confidence hung about him like a mist.

  Caleb walked to the stone circle where Malcolm sat. He stopped at the edge, dropped to his knees, and bowed so low his forehead touched the ground.

  Malcolm hopped nimbly to his feet, placed his hands behind his back, and walked a small circle around the revenant. “Rise and let me have a look at you,” he said.

  Caleb did as commanded.

  Malcolm inspected him as a feudal lord might look upon a prize thoroughbred, and Caleb didn’t care for it one bit. He felt alien in his own skin and the urge to escape twitched inside him, but he held firm.

  “Masterful work, Aldebaran… you surpass yourself yet again. So, do you know why you’re here, revenant?”

  Caleb shook his head.

  “It’s quite simple. Though your master is undisputed lord of his creations, I alone possess oversight of the Ashkalon’s martial resources, and as such, all prospective weapons are subject to my approval. Only I may judge you suitable for combat operations, and only I may grant you the green hood. Do you understand?”

  Caleb nodded.

  Malcolm completed his visual inspection and stepped away. When he reached the opposite edge of the stone circle, he turned and faced Caleb.

  “Every invictus is free to conduct such trials however he sees fit, and my own test is rooted in the belief that elegance and simplicity are but two edges of one blade.”

  He undid his sash, gently folded it and set it to the side, then opened his robes and allowed them to slide off his shoulders with a hiss, leaving him clothed only in a pair of loose-fitting trousers that flared wide at the ankle. His physique was slender but well muscled, clad in skin like fine porcelain. More of the twisting scars lay across his chest, his back, and spiraled down each arm.

  “I offer you then but one simple, elegant commandment… survive.”

  There was no waiting. There were no subtle probing steps. On the balls of his bare feet, Malcolm padded forward and flowed into a strike with exceptional speed and grace.

  Caleb reacted on instinct. His arms just barely crossed before him and intercepted the attack,
its terrible force driving him skidding back across the stonework. He moved to prepare for the next blow but it and its kin came too fast. Hands and feet like steel battered his knee, his ribs, his head.

  Pain radiated out like fractures through glass. Ignoring it, he darted back in a futile attempt to disengage, but Malcolm shadowed his every move, leaving no escape from the hail of blows that harried him.

  How could a living man move this quickly?

  Caleb needed to change the engagement, and sacrifice was his only option. He gritted his teeth, recast his focus and watched several of Malcolm’s strikes pummel him. Details flashed in his eyes. Patterns of muscle flexion registered and the bigger picture assembled itself. After three blows, he understood the dance and could extrapolate the next dozen steps.

  Fresh knowledge fed his instinctual mind and he offered his riposte. Where punches landed, Caleb became liquid, softening the impacts and slowing Malcolm’s motions until his rhythm stretched and broke.

  The final attack came slower still and off balance, allowing Caleb the split-second he needed to catch the arm in flight. With practiced ease, he gripped Malcolm’s wrist between muscle and bone, and his entire body heaved down and back at once.

  His fist drew back and he prepared to strike. The moment grew bright as Caleb realized he was about to finish the fight with one punch.

  But it wasn’t to be. Malcolm allowed his arm to hyper-extend and he deftly rolled through the grapple, then coiled and kicked.

  The foot struck hard and Caleb went sprawling across the ground. As he tumbled, he pounded the ground with his fist and launched himself into the air, then landed in a guarded crouch. Frustration twisted his face into a snarling grimace, safely hidden beneath his ceremonial hood.

  “Good,” Malcolm said with a grin.

  Caleb’s silent reaction was to go on the offensive. He bounded forward and unleashed a string of attacks, moving as fast as his clay flesh would allow. Jab, jab, cross, knee.

  Each strike was met swiftly and turned away by blows to the elbow, the shoulder, the knee. Even Malcolm’s defenses were attacks.

  Pain screamed inside of Caleb, and a voice in his head whispered that the fight was already finished. He just couldn’t move fast enough, and soon the invictus began to overtake him. After each block came two attacks that peppered Caleb’s body and sapped his strength.

  He’d already broken Malcolm’s rhythm. Now it was time to break his own.

  One and then the next of Caleb’s attacks slashed through the air and were intercepted by nimble hands, then he surged hard against his own momentum and muscle memory. On the half-beat, he drove his fist into his enemy’s stomach, and surprise flared in Malcolm’s eyes.

  Beat. Silence. Beat. Malcolm grew impulsive and reacted just an instant too soon. Off-time and out of position, he surely knew what came next but he didn’t allow that knowledge to touch his emotionless face.

  Caleb flowed in and through his attack with furious strength. Punch, cross, elbow to jaw, grip arm and throw.

  Malcolm sailed inverted through the air, his fingers dragged momentarily along the ground, and he righted himself before striking the far wall feet first. Another dance step. Another calculated reaction. He bounded back and was on the move, sprinting lightly around the atrium’s outer wall.

  His fingers bent into ancient gestures as he ran, and ethereal light came to his hands like foxfire. He cried out in fluent Arkesh, his voice deep and strong with a haunting echo, and several sinuous arm motions completed the technique. In response, oblong balls of light wrapped in webs of living lightning manifested in his hands, and he threw each as it formed. They streaked through the air like burning falcons in flight.

  Caleb leaped to safety while light and heat exploded behind him, chased by a faint scent of ozone. As he lurched into motion and powered up to full sprint, he was terrified by one thought: he was only facing the barest shadow of an invictus’ full ability.

  Ball-lightning crashed into a nearby wall and the stonework exploded, pelting him with broken shards.

  Survive.

  He needed some way to retaliate, but there were no weapons at hand. The atrium was empty except for the stupid trees and ridiculous grass. No knives. No stones. Not so much as a grain of Grim-damned sand.

  Another bolt streaked past him, sizzling and humming as it flew through the air, then burst with a deafening crack. The next burnt a hollow gash through the lifeless meat of his shoulder. Where would the one after that strike?

  Survive.

  But I’m already dead, he thought… so why do I persist in fighting like the living?

  With that rattling around in mind, he frantically scanned his surroundings and finally caught sight of the weapon that would deliver him to victory’s waiting arms. It wasn’t a living man’s weapon… in fact, most wouldn’t think it a weapon at all. It was sheer madness, and he was pretty sure he liked it.

  Caleb danced to the rapid pace of Malcolm’s bolts, dodging and weaving with a new found confidence. When a momentary lull came, he crouched low, pressed hard against the floor, and launched himself skyward like an arrow. His eager hands found holds in the brass framework, and he swung from one to the next with a primate’s instinctual ease.

  Malcolm reacted with utmost calm. He made a command gesture with his off-hand, releasing himself from the ship’s artificial gravity, and he drifted up into the air. His assault changed seamlessly, replacing bolts of ball-lightning with serpentine tendrils of fire that raced out after his prey.

  Covered in peeling tongues of flame, those tendrils curled around and snapped at Caleb, but he spun gracefully by and received only a singe or two for his troubles. He was playing to his strengths, moving like a revenant instead of a man bound impotently to the ground, and his opponent dared not unleash more powerful techniques for fear of rupturing the dome.

  Caleb harbored no such fear.

  The ravenous tendrils lashed out again and again but he slipped past them. Dozens of handholds presented themselves in every direction, offering a route to his destination that constantly shifted and evolved, frustrating every attempt at interception.

  When he finally came to the circular pane at the dome’s peak, his time arrived. Flipping upside-down, Caleb latched his legs around a horizontal bar, levered himself back and struck with terrible force. He worried that it wasn’t enough but then came the sound, a shrill shattering followed instantly by the deadened song of glass-shards colliding and the toneless howl of air rushing out into space.

  He snatched a thin blade of glass before it could disappear into the vacuum, then turned and braced himself.

  Deprived of fuel, Malcolm’s burning serpents unraveled into nothingness while he rushed uncontrollably toward his enemy, scrambling all the while to perform another technique. Hands flashed olden sigils, arms spun out and crashed back together, but perfect serenity remained on his colourless face the entire time.

  A hum and crackle preceded it, then Malcolm’s barrier burst into existence and sealed off the breach. In that same instant, Caleb sprang forward and tackled him, catching the invictus while his nascent construct still required focus to maintain.

  Synthetic gravity dragged them downward. They plummeted together through thin air and crashed into the cobblestones where Caleb pinned his opponent, pressed the glass blade to his throat, and waited.

  Cherry blossoms swirled and fluttered throughout the atrium. Malcolm lay still, dazed from impact and dizzy from the shortness of air. A thin smile graced his lips.

  “Well fought, revenant,” he said. “Your technique is good, though not yet perfect. Your plan was clever and quickly executed.”

  Caleb remained motionless.

  “But you would have joined me in oblivion,” Malcolm added, his infuriating calm still totally undisturbed.

  That was when Caleb noticed it: a point of intense heat rested at the base of his skull, and the muscles of his neck twitched in response to an electrical field. Malcolm was being generous
with his words, and Caleb now understood to what extent.

  He withdrew his blade slowly and placed it on the ground, and the heat moved away. He never detected even the most subtle muscle contractions in Malcolm, yet the invictus was commanding a high-energy construct’s every move. The small sphere floated smoothly into Caleb’s view, where it dissipated in a sudden flash.

  He was left in silent awe. The amount of skill, focus, and raw talent necessary to perform two wholly separate techniques simultaneously was hard enough to imagine, but it went deeper. Even battle hardened interfectors could only form ball-lightning in hand and fling it away; Malcolm had somehow manifested his at a distance and retained fine control while being tackled, battered, and slammed to the ground. More impressive still, he’d done so with internal methods that perfectly eluded a revenant’s enhanced senses.

  Combat came as naturally to Malcolm as breathing. This was never a fight.

  Caleb stepped back and bowed low before the invictus, touching his forehead repeatedly to the ground.

  “Stand,” Malcolm said as he got to his feet. “You’ve earned the right to stand.” He wiped a single drop of blood from his throat. “You may also inform your magus that you’ve earned your green hood today.”

  Book II:

  Eighth Fragment

  Caleb released the stone face and it groaned shut behind him. Vinton was waiting there in the hallway with his shoulders hunched and fingers threaded together, looking like a cloistered monk of some long extinct heretical order. Mild surprise tinged his world weary eyes, and he stepped forward to examine Caleb’s wounds with a deeply impersonal air.

  Caleb might as well have been a cheap table accidentally marred by a careless boot for all the empathy Vinton showed, and he had no choice but to get used to such treatment.