by Adrian Cole
“They have easily controlled you,” interrupted Nighteye. “So is it not easier for them to control your mere hand?”
A cold, cynical laugh burst from the Voidal’s lips and both familiars shrunk back at the wild sound. “My hand! It was never my hand. The Dark Gods purloined my true hand: the hand of which you speak is theirs. It forces me to do their work, though I would shirk the task if I could. If your Masters have truly stolen it, I am well rid of it. But they are mad to think they can wield it.”
“You underestimate their powers,” said Nighteye petulantly.
“They know nothing of the Dark Gods,” sneered the Voidal. “But it is their play. Let them do their worst.”
“What will happen?” said Elfloq, moved now by growing anxiety.
The Voidal shook his head. “I cannot say. But Death will walk your city. I cannot leave until he has reaped his harvest. He is the fee for my summoning.”
“What of the Orgae?” went on Elfloq. “What part do they play?”
The Voidal looked confused. “Who are they?”
“The sea people. In the Weedcoves and lower Tiers. Their restlessness has not gone unobserved. Are they involved?”
“When I possessed the hand, I was plagued with dreams, visions, prophecies, and I often saw in them something of what was to come. Yet the dreams visited upon me by your Masters showed me nothing of the future. Thus my vision is limited, my power truly usurped.”
Elfloq frowned. “What if you were to regain your hand, your power? Could you then say what is to come?”
“Only if the Dark Gods wish it known.”
“But the Seven will perish?”
“The Dark Gods are mocked by none. Greater beings than your Masters have fallen to them.”
“If the Seven fall, the Orgae will rise, storming the city, for they will think the power of the Csarducts broken!” cried Nighteye.
“That would be so, if the Seven fell,” agreed Elfloq. “And there would be new gods in Quellermondel. Or should I say, old gods returning?”
“Would that we could know!” exclaimed Nighteye.
“If the Orgae rise and take back this city,” added Elfloq, “the Csarducts would come from beyond in force and destroy Moonwater utterly.”
The Voidal listened to them in silence.
“Then—we shall all perish,” mumbled the unhappy Nighteye.
“Unless we prevent the fall of the Seven.”
“We have only this man’s word that they may fall—”
“I am not overfond of risks,” said Elfloq. “And I prefer to control as much of my own fate as I may. There are too many bleak possibilities in this affair.” He turned back to the Voidal. “How may we prevent this catastrophe?”
The dark man shook his head. “We are mere pawns. We control nothing.”
“But the prophecy?” said Nighteye. “If you reclaim the hand, you will see what doom shall come to Moonwater—”
“Doom?” echoed Elfloq. “If it is to be that, then I shall make for some more salubrious place, with all speed. And if my Master is to perish, then I shall find another!” He glanced slyly at the dark man, thinking on what might be.
“What’s to be done?” said Nighteye glumly. Elfloq had severely dented what little peace of mind he had.
“I will confront your sorcerers,” said the Voidal. “The hand is destructive beyond their understanding. I will plead for its return, otherwise the Dark Gods may begin an indiscriminate punishment for the theft. I have no love of that vile member, but it will leave a bloody swathe of chaos until it is returned.” He held up his incomplete arm.
“You cannot leave, chained as you are by the spells of Endellys,” said Nighteye.
“Then release him!” snapped Elfloq impatiently. “Surely it is obvious we cannot ignore his plight.”
“I can weaken the hold of the spells,” said Nighteye, “but to free him—I doubt if I am able.” But he set to chanting and muttering, making airy passes with his tiny fingers. Elfloq added what weight he could and the Voidal drew in his breath, steeling his wiry frame. There came a crackle of energy: the air was very hot for a moment, heavy with powers, but the Voidal rose stiffly, swinging his legs from the slab and standing shakily. He drew his blade and it began to hum, its metal alive.
“This is the Sword of Dispersal,” he said. “Let me test these spells.” He flicked it easily to and fro, lively as a serpent’s tongue, absorbing the last of the binding spells and converting them to so much empty air.
“Is it done?” breathed Elfloq.
“It is,” nodded the dark man. “My thanks to you both.”
“My own fate is certainly cast with yours,” Nighteye said to Elfloq with a scowl. “Though I am fickle in my disloyalty.”
“On the contrary, you are very wise,” Elfloq laughed, though nervously. “So, no dallying, lest your master come to examine his erstwhile prisoner. Let’s away to the upper city.”
“Take me before Quarramagus,” said the Voidal, no longer drugged, but purposeful and assured.
They came by devious means to the tower of Quarramagus, for the wily Elfloq knew the most tortuous methods of entry and was careful that his two companions should go undetected. Quarramagus had long since explained to the familiar the intricacies of the passages and corridors to the upper portion of the sorcerous tower, and Elfloq was thus once more able to avoid the numerous blasting spells and malefic demon guards that prowled the place in profusion. Outside the doors of the chamber of the sorcerer, the three halted, Elfloq speaking further runes and spells.
“How do you wish to enter?” he asked the Voidal.
“Is the Mage within?”
Elfloq listened, then nodded. “I sense him—resting, I think.”
The Voidal indicated the thick doors. “Open them.”
Elfloq obeyed, but hopped aside to allow the dark figure first entry. The Voidal strode into the chamber, sword drawn, and glared ahead of him. A black-draped dais was before him, its cloth soaked and dripping; upon it, picked out in wispy candlelight were the glittering shards of some shattered vessel.
“The Moonglobe!” whispered Elfloq at the Voidal’s waist. “Gods of the Pits! Where is the hand? It was imprisoned within.”
The Voidal shook his head. “We are too late. It must have already begun its dreadful work. I smell blood in here.” There was a squeak of terror behind him: Nighteye had popped out of being, preferring the astral.
“A fickle ally indeed,” commented Elfloq with a sniff.
“Be silent,” said the Voidal calmly, ears cocked. Elfloq immediately listened. There were curious giggles coming from an alcove, hidden by purple silks. “What lies there?”
Elfloq shrugged, not anxious to look. The Voidal walked across the bizarre designs and motifs on the floor and reached for the drapes with the tip of his sword. Blood seeped in a thick pool from behind them. More eerie laughter came to his ears. Elfloq kept cautiously at bay, ready to follow Nighteye on to the astral at a hint of danger. The silks parted. There, cowering against a stone wall, tittering like an imbecile, was Quarramagus.
“Your Master?” the Voidal asked Elfloq.
The familiar nodded, shuffling forward in amazement. “He is—insane,” he breathed, seeing the mad eyes.
The cowering figure held up an arm and the Voidal understood, for it ended in a black and withered hand, the same that had been stolen. Elfloq squawked as though singed by fire and leapt well back.
“Ambition has done this!” said the Voidal scornfully. “He has cheated his companions and sought to graft the Oblivion Hand on to his arm.” He pointed to pools of blood that led to a grisly hand in a corner, the mangled hand of the Mage of Spells. “He sought to wield the power for himself. His perfidy has undone the combined power of the Seven and breached their defences.”
Elfloq nodded, grimacing at the two repellent members. “What now?”
But a sound behind them made them both turn to face a new dilemma, for the six remaining sorcerer
s of the Csarducts stood there, arranged in a half circle, their featureless heads directed at the two intruders.
“What treachery do you work here?” snarled Zomakh.
The Voidal stepped aside so that the sorcerers could look upon the mad thing that had been Quarramagus. The withered hand had now altered in appearance. It had left the Mage and was crawling across the floor towards the six, settling at the heart of a blasphemous design upon the floor and flattening itself. Each of its fingers pointed at one of the six, for there were now six fingers where there had been five.
For a period of several heartbeats the scene froze. Elfloq felt his every fibre shaking with terror, being as he knew, in the presence of some colossal, imperishable evil. Then the six sorcerers broke ranks, and as one, turned and fled from the terrible severed hand. The Voidal alone seemed calm. He walked to the hand and looked down at it with more loathing and disgust than Elfloq had ever seen before upon the face of a man. The dark man bent down, obscuring the hand, but when he turned to face the familiar, he had two black-gloved hands, as though he had never been without them.
“Is it over?” said Elfloq tremulously.
“Over? It is never over. And this has only just begun.”
“What are we to do?”
The Voidal considered. “We can only wait. The familiars are your allies, your close fellows?”
“Well, no—they are—well,” spluttered Elfloq, but then shrugged. “Oh, yes, I suppose they are my fellows, my kindred.”
“Go to them all. Tell them that the sorcerers of Quellermondel are doomed. The familiars must flee. The Dark Gods have no quarrel with them, but they are without pity.” Elfloq looked greatly disturbed, but nodded, glad to be able to quit the frightful chamber and the presence of the man who could face this impending catastrophe with such unnerving calmness.
Jundamar, Mage of Prophecy, and the five other sorcerers were gathered in the tower of the former, all listening intently to the trilling voice of Dagwort, Jundamar’s familiar. Dagwort had come rushing to Jundamar’s side the moment his master had returned from the ominous events in Quarramagus’s tower, telling the Mage of the alarming things that portended in the city. Jundamar had called the remaining sorcerers to him at once and ordered Dagwort to repeat his dire warnings.
“Masters,” said Dagwort, voice almost failing him in the presence of so many hallowed Mages, “I have been watching events in Quellermondel while you have been engaged in your late workings. While below, in the very Weedcoves, I listened to the whispers and susurrations of the Orgae. It seems they fear your power no more, for they plan to rise up through the city like a tide and reinstate themselves as its masters. They have their own prophets, who have been silent since the coming of the Csarducts, but who are now inciting the Orgae to rebellion, telling them that the time of their Old Gods is at hand. Soon they will rise.”
“Who is behind this?” growled Zomakh. “Is this another of Quarramagus’s treacheries? We have seen how he cheated us by seeking to use the Oblivion Hand for himself—is this how he worked its power upon us?”
The others pondered this, nodding; it seemed that Zomakh spoke the truth.
Quar Mordo spoke. “Whatever the dreadful schemes of Quarramagus, he is mad in his tower. Should we fear the lowly Orgae? Ridiculous! Let us bring down a curse upon them at once and smother their dreams of conquest. We must assert our power immediately.”
This met with unanimous approval.
Lucedrix held up a hand and they turned to him. “Some good may come of Quarramagus’s foul treachery yet. Through it we may easily demonstrate to the Csarducts that he was singularly responsible for the invoking of this Voidal and that he tried to use the creature’s power to overthrow the Csarduct Dynasty.”
“Excellent,” nodded Zomakh, and his comment was quickly endorsed by the others.
“I submit,” put in Tephlemytho, “that Quar Mordo, as celebrated Mage of Pain, devise the nature of the destruction of the Orgae. And quickly.”
Quar Mordo bowed. “A means of chastisement has already come to mind. The Orgae must be severely punished, but not destroyed utterly. When this is done, they will still have their uses.”
“Of course,” the others agreed.
“I thought, perhaps, if we were to render their fighting arms useless—”
This met with the unanimous approval of the sorcerers.
“Very well,” nodded Quar Mordo. “I will undertake the necessary working. The Orgae rising will be stillborn.”
Elfloq entered again the apartments of his erstwhile Master, Quarramagus. He was less fearful now of what he would find, though still wary of the dark man he had left here. He came across him sitting in a carved chair, staring out into apparent nothingness. At the tread of Elfloq’s gentle feet, the Voidal came alert and greeted him. Elfloq bowed.
“I have spoken with all the familiars, save Dagwort.”
“And?”
“They are all undecided, but favour flight on to the astral realm until affairs here on Moonwater begin to balance again.”
“They are wise then. But what of this Dagwort?”
“Familiar of Jundamar, Mage of Prophecy. He is most loyal to his Master and will be reluctant to leave his side. They are together at the moment, Dagwort doubtless blathering as much as he knows.”
“No matter. I doubt that any course chosen by the sorcerers will affect events to come. This Mage of Prophecy should see this, but it may be that the Dark Gods have drawn a veil over his far-seeing eyes.”
Elfloq nodded, looking about him alertly, expecting anything. “May I enquire as to the fate of Quarramagus?”
The Voidal nodded. “He is no more. His heart ceased to function and there is an end of it. Put him from your memory.” A shadow crossed his face and Elfloq read enough in it to let the matter lie.
“There is other news,” he said.
“Yes?”
Ordinarily Elfloq would have sought to barter his pieces of information, but he thought better of attempting to deal with the dark man. “The Csarducts, rulers of Moonwater and of Phaedrabile, are gathered in the royal palaces of Dan Zar Enzo, where they are conducting an orgy and a great feasting in honour of victories won in the extension of their empire. Many of their great Conquistadors are there. Soon they will visit this very tower, intending to consult the oracle of the Seven so that they may know of their next conquest and of its fruitfulness, though I cannot see why they ask! They sweep all before them.”
“The Csarducts? Many of them, and their greatest warriors?”
“Indeed, the very heart of their ruling body. A unique gathering.”
“Now I see all things at once. I see why the Dark Gods have sent me.”
“Oh?” said Elfloq, unsure how to press for more truths.
“The death of Quarramagus was the first of three dooms sent to Moonwater. Three dooms—the hand, the arm and the body. The second doom will soon fall.”
Elfloq grimaced. “What will you do?”
“I?” said the Voidal with a dry laugh. “I can do nothing but wait. I will not help these accursed Dark Gods, though it would amuse them to hear me say it.”
Puzzled by the enigmatic reply, Elfloq nodded as though in comprehension. “I will wait also.”
Quar Mordo laughed unpleasantly. He had cast the magics. Now the stinking Orgae would feel his venom. Out into the shadowed city the spells had dissipated and soon they would reap their unsavoury harvest. Quar Mordo sat in his tower, crouched over the optic mirror—its surface shimmered like a silken pond and within were the images the Mage sought.
The Weedcoves. Dark, festooned with trailing streamers of seaweed, curling with knotted vines of subterranean root. Here were the mooncoral havens of the lowly Orgae; seeping into them came the cruel spells of the sorcerer, the bane of all, sparing none.
Quar Mordo again laughed sharply as he saw the first of the amphibian folk stricken, and thereafter the curse spread like a virulent plague, so that the fighting arms o
f the dwellers in the sea were withered and made useless. Throughout all the dwelling places, all the harvest rooms, and all the far reaches of the Weedcoves the potent magic wrought its fallowing curse. Quar Mordo turned from the mirror, his pineal window, nodding to himself with satisfaction.
“Let the Orgae rise! The Csarduct Dynasty has nothing to fear from cripples!”
Jundamar looked out from his tower. The growing sense of dread that had been no more than a subtle streak in his dreams had now become an awning of doom drawn over the city of Quellermondel. The Seven had obscured the moons with clouds to shadow their evil work, but they had not gone—thick black billows of cloud had come scudding across the ocean, whose sprinkled lights had winked out, leaving the waters dark and oddly lifeless: a strange phenomenon for Moonwater, for without the moons or the sea-glow, the all-pervading darkness weighed down on Quellermondel like a choking mantle. Jundamar knew now that there were greater forces at work than the Seven had estimated, and that to control them would need a tremendous fusion of powers. His early doubts expanded with the darkness that had come and gloom settled even deeper within him than it had outside the tower.
Each of the other sorcerers secretly scowled at the artificial night that had drawn itself over the city. They watched from high windows and from their crystal globes and from their mirrors; they saw the low-born of the Tertiary Tiers bolting and barring the doors and windows of their hovels, all hiding within so that the alleys and backwaters were devoid of life or movement. Even the slinking cats and the scuttling alley rats were gone. On the Secondary Tiers it was likewise; all had gone within as though to be touched by the shadow of night meant instant pain. Only on the highest levels of the city was there any sign of habitation. Nowhere else was there light, sound or movement.
Then, beginning under the sea, in the Weedcoves, came the first of the movement. Wriggling, squirming movement. Like the coming of crabs or spiders it began, shrouded in the darkness. A tide unlike any known before on Moonwater, living, surging slowly upward beyond former levels. The six remaining sorcerers of the Csarducts did what they could to rip aside the weed veils that cloaked this strange surging, but failed. Everything had been obscured save the sure knowledge that there was movement, upward. Out of the sea it moved, and on through the alleys and backstreets of the dingy Tertiary Tiers. Up it went, silent but purposeful. The dark clouds over the city thickened, making pale the lights in the highest spires.
