Oblivion Hand

by Adrian Cole

“Indeed I have. I will create an endless maze of dreams in which he shall wander in contentment for the rest of eternity.”

  “Very well,” nodded Quarramagus. “The hand is secure. Break the pentacle.”

  Jundamar mouthed his doubts once more.

  “The hand is sealed!” snapped Quarramagus. “And the Voidal is as one dead. Cease your tremblings. You have seen only doom for the Csarducts, not us. You jeopardise us all with your lack of faith.”

  “Forgive me,” breathed Jundamar. “My dreams are not as untroubled as yours.”

  “Break the pentacle. Take the hand to the Moonglobe we have prepared. There it will repose until we are ready to put it to our use.”

  “And the fall of the Csarducts will begin,” said Zomakh.

  “Endellys,” said Quarramagus. “Attend to the removal of the Voidal. You know what to do with him.”

  “Oh yes, I do indeed.”

  Shadows clung to the Seven as they began the final stages of their devious work. High above them, peering down through the slitted window in the curved dome, the squashed features of Elfloq looked on in wonder, marvelling at the things he had seen. Now the full ambitions of the Seven were made known to him, for his sensitive ears had caught it all.

  “Bring down the Csarducts, eh? Flaunt the servant of the Dark Gods in their very faces, eh? But what are these Dark Gods? Those whom Owlworm spoke of? And those whom Dagwort fears? I note that his Master, Mage of Prophecy, is also tremulous. What has he glimpsed down future’s tunnel, eh? I’ll know more of this before I cast my fate with my own Master. ‘Tis well Quarramagus is the spokesman in all these schemes, for I’ll learn his will ere long.” After a last glance within, the figure evaporated into the shadowed city.

  The dreams were kind.

  There was light and warmth, and the sombre cloud that always hung about him, a cloak of foreboding, was gone, lifted by gentle hands. Here in this vale of soft repose, he was able to put aside all that he had detested. No longer was he tortured by the enigmas of his exile.

  He glimpsed himself in a pool. He was complete. A new hand had replaced—what? But he had already forgotten. He was in Paradise, the journey done.

  Peace was an ocean: he swam it alone.

  East of the city, overhanging an extraordinarily bulbous mass of mooncoral, the tower of Lucedrix, Mage of Knowledge, rose majestically from the layers of the city. It was to this isolated pinnacle of mooncoral that Elfloq now sped, knowing that the Seven would yet be attending to the last of their affairs with the one they had invoked. Elfloq anticipated that here in the tower he would find Lucedrix’s familiar, Surefly, who still owed him a few favours. Here would be an opportunity to find out more about the Voidal.

  Elfloq brazenly popped into being in the centre of Lucedrix’s massive library of cluttered arcane lore, in which could be found a multitude of tomes and grimoires, most of which were duplicated nowhere else. To his surprise, and then delight, Elfloq found Surefly already here, himself buried deeply within a dusty relic of elder works. Silently Elfloq padded through the dust and looked over the tiny shoulders of the familiar at the crimson runes spread out on the page.

  “You find that interesting?” said Elfloq with a chuckle.

  Surefly sucked in his breath with a start, slamming the book shut, covering himself and the delighted Elfloq with swirling motes. His head bobbed, seemingly larger than his body. “I was just—uh—Elfloq! How dare you materialise in here! You flaunt familiars’ privileges—”

  “Fortunate for you I am not your Master. I am sure he would be most annoyed if he saw you pillaging his treasures.”

  Surefly’s face screwed up like a wrinkled fruit. “What do you want?”

  Elfloq’s smile widened. “Oh, nothing much, friend. A little information, that’s all.”

  “The price being your silence—”

  Elfloq waved this aside magnanimously. “Perhaps, but we must be swift. I am not here to tease you, which I can’t deny is common enough with me.”

  Surefly noted the tone. “Oh? There is something amiss?”

  “Even so. It began, as you recall, when we familiars were ordered to keep clear of our Masters. Most contrary to procedure.”

  “Indeed,” sighed Surefly. “Though in my Master’s absence I have been able to—ah, indulge myself a trifle.”

  “Have you learned anything?”

  “Have you?” replied Surefly suspiciously.

  “There is an atmosphere overhanging the city. Can you not smell doom in the very air?”

  “I sense the unease. It is more widespread than I thought. The Seven are embarked on some dire exercise.”

  Elfloq nodded. “They are indeed. Already the old dome reeks with magics most unfamiliar to me. Unhealthy magics.”

  Surefly tapped the tome he had closed. “I will confide in you, Elfloq, though it is only the uniqueness of the situation that—”

  “Come, come, there is nothing in this for me. We are both familiars. Is that not enough?”

  “Usually, no. But in view of the air of darkness that clouds Quellermondel, I will speak.”

  “Yes?” pressed Elfloq, containing his eagerness badly.

  “There is a great fomenting of apprehension in the lower Tiers and more specifically in the Weedcoves. The Orgae are inordinately agitated.”

  Elfloq showed his surprise: this was not the direction from which he expected enlightenment to come. “The—Orgae?”

  “Yes. Whatever our Masters are doing in the dome, it is causing unique alarm to the Orgae.”

  “But why? How can they possibly be affected?”

  Surefly held up a gnarled finger for silence. “That is what I have been trying to ascertain, at some pains. This tome deals with the deities and demons and such like of the ancient Orgae, most of which are virtually forgotten, having withered away long ago when the Csarducts usurped power on Moonwater.”

  “Gods? The Orgae have gods?” sneered Elfloq, but secretly he was piecing together more of the puzzle.

  “Of course! Slumbering, perhaps, but they exist.”

  “And this enterprise of the Seven—it invokes the old gods?”

  “I rather think, my friend, that it antagonises them. Have you spoken to Owlworm? Well, he keeps blabbering about ripples. Something moving in the deeps. Astral deeps, he says, but I have been reading this, and I rather fear that he may be mistaken. The deeps of Moonwater, which are unplumbed, may be a more accurate epicentre for these supposed ripples.”

  “Ah,” said Elfloq. So he was not the only one to be investigating the chain of abnormalities. “And what exactly do you foresee?”

  Surefly grunted. “I would usually recommend you to a conference with Dagwort, but the Prophet’s familiar is unseemingly tight-lipped with regard to prophecies. Cloudy, he mumbles. Typical incompetence. In view, however, of this clime of unease—”

  “You envisage something unpleasant?”

  “If only our Masters had confided in us! Their own familiars! We must assume they are in control, but—”

  “They are ambitious beyond their normal dreams,” mused Elfloq.

  “Their appetite for power is insatiable.”

  Elfloq nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. But, come. Tell me more of these old gods, my friend.” And together they perused the ancient book.

  In a secluded chamber of the tower of Quarramagus, the Seven stood in a half moon, looking towards the dais upon which the shimmering Moonglobe rested. Inside the translucent globe the deep blue mist swirled ceaselessly, like a living cloud; at its heart invisible chains had gripped the hand of the Voidal. It had now been rendered immobile by the tremendous strength of the spells of the sorcerers. Quarramagus boldly crossed the mosaic floor and stood close to the lambent hues of the Moonglobe. He smiled in self-satisfaction, turning.

  “We have tamed the Oblivion Hand. Now it will dispense fate at our whim! Its finger will single out those whom we choose. Whatever doom comes, comes at our command.”

  Zomakh came for
ward, still looking at the quiescent hand with apprehension. “When do we begin?”

  “The Csarducts are on Moonwater in force, preparing for new conquests. I will summon the first of them to this tower, promising him all that he seeks for his murderous brethren. I will summon the feared Dan Zar Enzo himself.”

  “And the Oblivion Hand?” said Quar Mordo.

  “It will lay his doom upon him, as is our will. For now, let us disperse. When I have prepared the ground for our evil seeds, I will send my familiar with word to your own. They know nothing of our coup. Later, perhaps.”

  With a few muffled comments and last brief glances at the hand in the Moonglobe, the sorcerers left, satisfied at last that their grim work neared completion. Last of them to go was Endellys. As he reached the door, Quarramagus put an arm on his, gently.

  “What of the Voidal, Endellys? Have you seen to him?”

  “I have. He will dream for as long as we desire it. He is secreted in a remote place, where no one of Quellermondel will find him. My familiar tends him and will do so until I call him off.”

  Quarramagus nodded, permitting himself a chuckle. “Good. All goes well.”

  Endellys bowed courteously and left.

  Quarramagus turned once more to the Moonglobe. “Yes, all goes very well. Yet I have one more magic to work before it is done. One more—” From his gown he drew a slender, sharp blade.

  Elfloq had left the library in Lucedrix’s tower where Surefly was now hastily tidying up the various books on Orgaen civilisation they had been perusing. Time now to investigate first hand, Elfloq decided. He took himself deep down into the city, past the levels of the Tiers, dropping through into the perpetual shadow to the very level of the phosphorescent ocean where it slopped over the uppermost of the Weedcoves. There was an old den down here where lowborn sailors gathered, and there was always news.

  Elfloq was fast moving, quick as the breeze, and able to meld with shadows so that most of the inhabitants of Quellermondel were no more aware of him than they were of the air he breathed. Now, at the base of the Tertiary Tiers, he paused, for his extraordinary senses told him that another of his fellow familiars was nearer at hand than would have been expected.

  “Well,” he muttered to himself, scowling behind a damp slab of mooncoral that had barely raised itself from the whispering sea. “Has Surefly dipped down here to experience the Orgae first hand, too? Though he said he had no mind for it. These are indeed grim times when even familiars do not trust each other. But—no, not Surefly.” He placed his tufted ear close to the slick mooncoral, ignoring its saline reek, and listened in to the subtle vibrations. Patiently he waited, calculating distances in silence. After a while he nodded to himself.

  “Nighteye, or I’m a lump of stone!” he hissed. “But what is Endellys’s familiar doing so far below the heights?” Cautiously he began to weave about the alleys and slideways of the Tertiary Tiers, evading the hunched figures that slumped along expressionlessly, cold and lifeless like men raised from the dead. It was a dreary, chilling domain without a soul. Moving away from the packed squalor of mooncoral slums, Elfloq crept out on to a spur that poked like a disused jetty into the deep green sea, its end lost in seeping mist. No one had observed him, so he scuttled over the broken chunks of mooncoral and approached the end of the finger. A rift led blackly down, seemingly to the Weedcoves. Elfloq disappeared like a fish, expecting to drop into the swirl of cool water, but the cave was of air and he realised that to remain in it he would have to skip into the astral. A few simple spells had been set to guard it, together with some rather unpleasant visions, but Elfloq grinned at them—child’s play to him, familiar to the Mage of Spells. But why here, in a remote pocket of the astral?

  Darkness presented no problems to Elfloq, for he had other senses capable of penetrating it. Deep in the crevasse he found a little chamber, as remote as anywhere in Quellermondel, he thought. Secreting himself with care, he looked and saw a crystal slab, gleaming and shot through with waving light. Lying prone upon it was the one who had materialised in the dome of the sorcerers, the Voidal. He was asleep.

  Elfloq knew that Nighteye was here somewhere, but being unable to see him for the moment, he quickly slipped across the chamber and stood before the sleeping figure. The pale face was expressionless, but Elfloq knew that the Voidal was dreaming. Both hands were upon his chest, hidden by the black cloak. With a sly glance around him, Elfloq gently lifted the hem of the cloak and nodded. The right hand was missing.

  Something cold stabbed at Elfloq’s back and he stood rooted in terror.

  “Why are you here, interferer?” hissed a low voice, recognisable as Nighteye’s.

  “Nighteye, my friend,” said Elfloq, not daring to move. The knife remained touching him.

  “Interferer first, friend second. Why are you here? Who sent you?”

  Elfloq swallowed with difficulty. “Oh, come, come, Nighteye. You know me and my curiosity well enough—”

  “Only too well. But whose errand are you on?”

  “My own. My Master appears to have temporarily disposed of my services—”

  Nighteye was briefly silent, but the knife withdrew. Elfloq risked turning. The sleepy-eyed familiar of the Dream Mage was studying him.

  “There are things afoot that baffle me,” said Nighteye with a yawn. “First my Master sent me off on some fool’s errand, and I gather the other familiars were all likewise discharged for a time. Then I was told to guard this creature you see before you. I know nothing of what transpires, as usual. I have only released you, wily Elfloq, because it is evident from your presence that you know something, which is also no uncommon thing. So, allow me to ask again, less belligerently, why are you here?”

  Elfloq nodded at the sleeping Voidal. “I came to see if I could learn anything from the sleeper. The Seven invoked him and then stole from him his right hand, the vessel of his powers. The Seven will use the powers of the hand to their own ends—”

  “More powers? Have they not enough? Must they seek to bring every last god of darkness under their sway? They will go too far.”

  “Just as I fear,” nodded Elfloq. “I am my Master’s familiar above all else, but should he choose to rebel against the Gods—and lose—well, I fancy that my own fate would be seriously jeopardised.”

  “What are you suggesting?” said Nighteye sceptically.

  “Nothing, my friend. Only that I value my existence. I would rather not have it tossed to the winds of chance and have to pray blindly for their favours.”

  “You feel our Masters overreach themselves?”

  “I would be more inclined to faith if they had confided in us.”

  Nighteye nodded. “Your tongue frames my very thoughts.”

  “Then?” urged Elfloq gently.

  “Then—? What do you suggest?”

  “Merely that we learn more of what is afoot. I know something already, as you anticipated. Well, I shall impart it to you, my friend, and at once.”

  Nighteye looked even more sceptical. “And—what would be the price of this information, dear friend?”

  “Simply a few words with the dreamer.”

  “Yes, I thought that might be your price.”

  “Well?”

  “I can unlock his sleep for but a short time. My Master’s magic is of the most puissant nature.”

  “Good enough,” grinned Elfloq. “First I will tell you what I have learned.” He then did so, though careful to edit the details so that it would be more than a little difficult for Nighteye to shape the entire puzzle. The latter listened with mounting interest, nodding and grunting. At the finish he decided that, for once, Elfloq had played him fair, and agreed to wake the sleeper for a short time. Thus he stood beside the figure, leaning over its ear, and began reciting something soft that Elfloq, to his annoyance, could not hear. Presently the figure stirred and then came out of its deep sleep slowly, like a creature of the sea surfacing very slowly.

  “He wakes,” said Nightey
e.

  “Is he secured?”

  “Aye. The lethargy remains. He has no strength to move. Speak when you see his eyes open.”

  Soon the man was awake and his lids fluttered. Elfloq leaned over him. “Voidal,” he said softly. “Do you hear me?”

  It was like another dream to the dark man, seeing the puckered face, the thick lips and peculiar features. He nodded to the odd creature hovering so close to him.

  “Good. I am Elfloq, a familiar of the sorcerers who brought you here. Do you understand?”

  The face was calm, but it began to change, a mask of doubt. “Dreamwarp is no more. But the child is spared, and the others. Are the ill dreams to begin anew?”

  “You dream no longer. You are awake. Do you not recall where you are?”

  There was a long pause, but then the figure nodded. “Sorcerers—”

  “Do you know why they brought you?”

  “Invoked me—”

  “Yes. To do what?”

  “My fate—is not mine to command.”

  “And your power?”

  “Power?”

  “How do you discharge your power? By your hand is it not, Fatecaster?”

  The Voidal was alert now. Nighteye looked nervous, but the persistent Elfloq pressed closer, eager.

  “My right hand,” said the Voidal. “I remember.”

  “Show me,” said Elfloq.

  But a look of terrible anguish crossed the man’s face. “You don’t know what you ask! It is a foul instrument. I dare not show it.”

  Even so, Elfloq abruptly reached under the cloak and pulled out the Voidal’s wrist, showing him the severed stump, neatly bound in black cloth. “See! You have no right hand.”

  Stupefaction replaced fear on the Voidal’s countenance, quickly dissolving to horror. “No hand? Yet in the dreams I again had two. And they were clean. My own, restored at last.”

  “Well, your hand is with the Seven now. They command it. Why? Why have they stolen it?” demanded Elfloq.

  The Voidal shuddered. “Stolen it? Yes, I recall. Dreamwarp’s gift grows strong within me. But how foolish to think the curse had been raised! Your sorcerers are insane. They have no true conception of what they have done. They have no further use for me, hence this phantom paradise in which they have set me. But the hand will seek their destruction. They cannot control its monstrous energies.”