Oblivion Hand

by Adrian Cole

  “Aye, a large flagon,” Elfloq replied with bravado, sitting at a table. He looked around him, but saw no one he knew. Murtegg and the three lamias had gone to find some private part of the establishment. Elfloq sighed, deliberating. To summon the Voidal—to tell him what he knew, that his lover was the eternal slave of the Lamia of Lamias, herself a lamia and chained to her frightful realm, never again to be what she once had been? But how would the Voidal react to such melancholy news? Surely he would curse the one to bring him such knowledge. And if the dark man did thank Elfloq and make him his servant, what then? The Voidal would doubtless seek out his lover in Nyctath, the forgotten dimension. Elfloq would then be bound to go—to face, for certain, the ire of Vandi-Nuessa, whom Delirion had said never forgot a slight.

  To summon the Voidal—whichever way the coin fell would presage unpleasantness. The Dark Gods were unkind, after all. Yet—they let the knowledge pass to Elfloq, and they left nothing to chance.

  He turned to Eye Patch of the Smile, who brought him the promised ale. “Bring food, too. Plenty of it.”

  “You have regained your appetite?” smiled the host.

  “It’s for another guest.”

  Somewhere above them, the two Divine Askers were making ready to quit the haven and return to their secret place of Hedrazee. Darquementi gave a thought to the squat familiar. “He had courage as well as impudence and ambition. He faced me in spite of his freezing terror. I hope that he will not be too discouraged when he discovers how he has been manipulated.”

  Zobbarkh smiled lazily. “I will fetch the charge of the giant.”

  Darquementi nodded as his companion quit the chamber. “Yes, I hope they spare you, familiar. There are no chance meetings in Cloudway.”

  Later it would seem to Elfloq that he had partaken of a little too much of Cloudway’s exceptional ale, and that the meeting at the table in the shadowed corner had been a product of his intoxicated imagination.

  Not one, but two figures stepped out of the darkness, and Elfloq sat back with a jerk. The dark man he recognised at once, both by his clothes and by his confusion. The other, a gangling fellow in clothes that had once been colourful but which had barely survived any number of repairs, also looked more than a little confused.

  The Voidal glanced at him. “I had not expected to meet you so suddenly after quitting Necral’s Keep, Grabulic. It seems we are yet tied to one another.”

  The Songster, for it was indeed he, nodded, looking about at the smoky hall. His eyes dropped to the diminutive figure at the table. “Yes, and we appear to have fallen in with very strange company. Is this the work of your mysterious masters?”

  The Voidal grunted, apparently amused by something. “I think not, for once. Greetings, Elfloq,” he said, coming to the table and seating himself. “As there are two dishes here, I presume one is for me?”

  Elfloq focused on the Voidal, burped, and nodded.

  The dark man indicated the food. “Here, Grabulic. Eat your fill if you’ve stomach for it.”

  Grabulic grinned, pulling up another chair and beginning at once.

  “Did you summon me?” the Voidal asked Elfloq. “You may have avoided the attendant penalty, but for what purpose?”

  “The same as before,” grinned Elfloq, nervously peering around him. “I am resolute.”

  “Your interference in my destiny has dragged this Songster into its web. But it pleases me to have him with me for a little longer. However, the Dark Gods will not tolerate this for long, if at all. And you, Elfloq, are in danger. No man may be my friend—”

  Elfloq hiccoughed and pushed away his ale, from which he had drained enough courage. “Riddles! I am not a man. And I have not said I would be your friend. Only your servant. The Dark Gods may allow me that.”

  The Voidal smiled. “To work for your own benefit! No, you tempt consequences you could not dream of. The Dark Gods are cruel, devious beyond knowing. I would not have you punished on my account. Too many have suffered through me.”

  “Without a master, I am doomed to perish.”

  “A familiar with such talents—and with such cunning—as yourself could have his pick of any wizard, sorcerer, mage—”

  “I have made my choice,” affirmed Elfloq. “Listen, Voidal! I offered you my service once before and you declined. But now I have the means to barter with you. I have fresh knowledge. Is this not your goal?”

  The Voidal’s smile faded abruptly and his green eyes narrowed. “About myself? You have learned something of me?”

  “That which will both please and displease you. It may earn me your wrath, even hatred, but I will risk even that.”

  Elfloq felt the green eyes drilling into him as though they would see his very thoughts. The dark man’s voice had become a hiss. “Tell me what you know.”

  “It will be a revelation, I promise, and I will gladly tell you, but will you be my master?”

  The words hung in silence; the very dust seemed still. Grabulic’s fork was poised in mid-air, loaded with food. He had stopped chewing, eyes fixed on the bizarre couple who faced one another.

  “You understand that you are courting catastrophe?” said the Voidal.

  “Yes.”

  The Voidal stared at the familiar, carefully balancing out needs and repercussions in silence. He emitted a great sigh. “I must share this knowledge. Very well.”

  Grabulic chewed slowly, realising that something of great weight was taking place.

  “It concerns the woman. The Askers said you would know her,” said Elfloq, watching the Voidal stiffen. The familiar described the lamia he had been shown by Darquementi, her dread seat in Nyctath the All-Night.

  Afterwards the Voidal remained immobile for a long time, eyes closed as if picturing for himself Vandi-Nuessa’s dreary domain and the terrible things in it. Then he shuddered, his fists contracting with violent but controlled emotion.

  Elfloq flinched, dreading the awakening of the Dark Gods’ hand.

  “Necral did not lie. She is alive. Yet she is cursed even as I am. Her fate is worse than my own.”

  “Will you seek her?”

  The Voidal seemed to tremble with anguish. “Dare I? Dare I heap more misery upon her? Even if I were allowed to go there—”

  “I was afraid to tell you of this,” said Elfloq. “I see that it has riven you.”

  The Voidal shook his head. “My anger is not for you. I will direct it all elsewhere, when I am ready.”

  A surge of relief douched the familiar. But there was another anxiety to be faced. He had no desire whatsoever to visit Nyctath, in view of his dealings with the lamias, but if he were to serve the Voidal truly, he must obey his master’s needs and wishes.

  “Then you will make me your servant?” he prompted.

  The Voidal’s pained gaze returned to him from great distances. “You are adamant? Since that was the bargain, you may serve me as it suits you, familiar. But you are a fool.”

  “Then how may I serve you now?” replied Elfloq at once. “What do you desire? Information? News? I have a treasure trove, I have contacts everywhere, I—”

  “Peace, peace!” the dark man smiled grimly. He turned to Grabulic. “There is one cause I would gladly champion. Grabulic searches for his own lost love.”

  “Layola,” breathed the Songster. “If I could find her, imprisoned in my instrument though she is, I would be content.”

  “Perhaps Elfloq knows something of her whereabouts, or could pursue news of her on your behalf.”

  Grabulic at once described Layola to the familiar, and as he did so, the diminutive figure seemed to shrivel up, almost sliding under the table.

  “Has the ale soured your brain?” the Voidal asked him.

  Elfloq shook his head. “I—I—” he burbled.

  “Speak out,” said the Voidal. “Come, if you are to serve me, you must have no secrets from me!”

  “Layola,” breathed Elfloq. “I saw her.”

  Grabulic leaned across the table,
eyes filled with anguish. “Where?”

  “She was beside the lamia. Just as you describe her. The lamia’s fingers touched her strings.”

  Grabulic gasped and the Voidal scowled in fury. “You see how they work! The Dark Gods laugh in our faces. Nyctath holds them both!”

  “I must go there,” said Grabulic. “I must try to regain her, whatever lurks there.”

  The Voidal stood up, mouth hardening. “I swore to aid you, Songster. So be it. I, too, will visit Nyctath. Somehow it is their will.”

  Elfloq tried to smother his terror. It was unavoidable—the Dark Gods had known it all along. This must be their fee for allowing Elfloq such liberties. He must go to Nyctath and face the Lamia of Lamias.

  “If I might suggest,” he said, “I could visit Nyctath easily enough.”

  The Voidal nodded. “You could. But do not invoke me again, once you are there. It would be your end.”

  Elfloq pretended to be amused by the preposterous statement. “There will be other ways of bringing you out of the void. You’ll not find my brain empty.”

  The Voidal laughed. “No, nor idle. And in the end, what will you gain, for all your dire risks?”

  “I am a familiar,” chuckled Elfloq, feeling a little better. “I feed on the power of my master.”

  “Well, you have a sufficiently large appetite.”

  Elfloq reached again for the ale. “That is so—master.”

  Chapter VIII

  EVER THE HUNGRY NIGHT

  If there is one thing we can all be certain of about the Dark Gods, it is that they are masters of retribution. And as they seem to know everything, cosmic or microcosmic, we are all subjected to the consequences of our acts, whether we appreciate the fact or not.

  To break free of this control, this Nemesis, would set us apart from, possibly above, the Dark Gods.

  But still we strive, oh how we strive!

  —Salecco, the Determined

  In a chamber hung with funereal black, the melancholy figure slumped in his chair of sculpted stone. A few candles burned in alcoves, casting the faintest luminescence about the room, weaving a pattern of shadows, cloaking the figure in a writhing darkness. His shoulders sagged, his eyes probing a remote vista. The walls of his chamber were thick and no sound from without penetrated. Alone in this remotest of places he brooded, as he had done for time immeasurable.

  He recalled many things—events that were not garbed in grim shadow, but in bright, effervescent light, which once he had loved. Deeds, events, loves. Though these memories twisted the knife of remorse within his heart, he could not put them from him as he had the daylight. Though he chose to hide here, he could never escape the memories.

  It was true that he had loved light, for he had been almost a god—a demigod of unsurpassed beauty, renowned also for his humour. All had loved him, and how he had loved! The sirens, the sylphs, the mermaids, the lamias, the witches, many more—even goddesses. His beauty had been known throughout the omniverse, by both light and dark powers, and he, sadly, chose to squander it for petty amusement, rather than in the service of those who knew best the affairs of the many dimensions. So great was his charm and so great his skill in winning the hearts of all whom he chose to woo, that his pride grew until at last it had superseded even his beauty. And the gods, already tired of his petty affairs, would no longer tolerate his pompous boasts and his impudent claim to be the most beautiful of all.

  Thus they punished him for his arrogance. They destroyed his looks and scattered his face like shards of a broken mirror throughout the omniverse, so that none could recall it. In its place they gave him a broken visage, cracked and lined, crumbling slowly like mouldering rock. Never again would he be called beautiful, nor would anyone find him desirable. Appalled by his disfigurement, he fled to this far away world on the edge of its dark dimension, walling himself up in his dismal tower. He was known ever after as Shatterface.

  Now, watching the shadows play, he saw them move in a strange way, thinking that his tortured mind must once more be teasing his senses. Yet the stuff of the night was coalescing: something was seeping into the chamber, its form burgeoning forth into several parts which separated and grew. There were thirteen such shapes. Shatterface pressed back deep into the cold recesses of the stone chair, for this visitation could only mean further pain. These were the Thirteen seneschals of the Dark Gods, who had struck him down for his haughtiness.

  An arm pointed at him, an accusing tendril. “You have languished for an age in your tower, Shatterface. Will you never again venture out into the many dimensions?”

  Shatterface hissed an answer. “To be jeered at by all living things? No. I remain here, unless you have come to eject me. Have your masters no pity?”

  “We are not here to force anything upon you. The Dark Gods have not forgotten you. They know how you have suffered. They would offer you a respite from this dreary existence, if you will earn it.”

  “Respite? If this is true, there will be a price. I know your cruel masters too well,” sighed Shatterface.

  The darkness pulsed, the disembodied voice indifferent. “We are here to pass on what we have been told, no more. If you wish surcease, you must earn it.”

  Shatterface considered, but he could not turn down a chance to end this numbing exile. “How?” he snapped.

  “There is a man you must find. He, like you, has been punished by the Dark Gods. He is their pawn, drifting at their whim, used against their enemies so that one day, perhaps, he may have atoned for his own sins.”

  “There must be many of us whom your masters have crippled.”

  “The Dark Gods do not tolerate evil against them. This man, the Voidal, sometimes called Fatecaster, has learned from treacherous creatures met on his wandering something of his circumstances and his past. He grows bold in his forbidden knowledge. His memory must once again be washed clean.”

  “By me? But what powers do I have?”

  “You will be given the means to wipe away the things the Voidal must not know. You shall have the Sword of Oblivion. Know that neither you, nor any other can kill the Voidal, but plunge the sword into him and you will have pleased the Dark Gods.”

  Shatterface leaned forward. “And if I do this?”

  “Half your face will be restored.”

  Shatterface cried out. “Half! And the remainder?”

  “Be satisfied! We pass on only what we have been told.”

  “And if I fail? Has this Voidal the means to destroy me?”

  “Not destroy, no. You have not earned such rest. But the Dark Gods are just. If the Voidal thwarts you, he will be allowed to retain the things he has learned. You will be as you are, to do as you wish. Return here, perhaps. You will not be punished for failure.”

  “Failure! No, not after so long a wait. I will pursue this Voidal remorselessly,” avowed Shatterface. “Wherever he walks, I will follow.”

  “That is permitted. Thrice you may try for him, but after that you must forget him. Thrice—abuse that command and you will be punished, in the extreme.”

  Shatterface nodded. “Then give me the Sword of Oblivion! I will do all that is asked of me. Nothing shall deter me—I would ravage eternity for my face!”

  The Thirteen began to depart, and in the place where they had been gleamed a sword, stretched out on the stone, its powers dormant but potent.

  In the dimension of Nyctath there is barely a seepage of light, as though darkness has welled up, tide-like, to engulf the very suns and stars of that unhappy realm. There are dim embers of decomposing worlds, fading as the great cold snuffs them like candles without wicks. Even the gods have given up this dreary place, which once they populated as freely as any other. Nyctath, once a proud place, is now a region of decay, where night beings lurk in abundance: it is spoken of as Nyctath the All-Night, the forgotten dimension.

  Yet there was a solitary god who dwelt in Nyctath, loath to leave, being convinced in his dotage that one day the gods of light would come aga
in to his shunned realm. This lonely god, whose years equalled in number the very stars of the omniverse, burned and tended the last light in Nyctath, and by its ever-dimming radiance set the false dawn and dusk of the scattered worlds. This ancient god, Ozbaak Uderaak, dwelt in the mountainous retreat of Nacramonte on a clinker world that had lost its own name; here he sought to restore light, dreaming that one day he would make incandescent the heavens and spread a celestial glow throughout the entire dimension of Nyctath. Once he had sought to do this without recourse to dubious powers, but as the swarms of night creatures and acolytes of gloom multiplied around him like germs, he turned to whatever powers and mysteries he could find to aid him. Hope and a blind faith were his twin weapons, for slowly his sacred beacons were dimming, the shadows drawing tighter around him. Night was always waiting to pounce and make whole its conquest.

  Slipping from one dimension to another and between them on the astral was second nature to a familiar. Elfloq, as lively as any of his peculiar kind, popped into exisence in the dismal surroundings that he guessed at once must be Nyctath, the dimension known omniversally as the All-Night. His unfortunate features screwed themselves up distastefully and became even more ugly; however, he had never depended on his good looks to win him any of his numerous ambitions.

  He found himself on a slagheap, knee-deep in ashes: a cloud of black dust rose up around him. Stretched out beyond him in monotonous continuity were hummocks that suggested infinite heaps of detritus. The place was dead—extinct. Elfloq doubted if anything could live here. He had miscalculated, though not by much, for peering upward through the smog, he saw a world suspended high in the pitch heavens, a single glow about it like a red halo. That must be the world of the old god, Ozbaak Uderaak, the last wielder of light in this miserable dimension.

  Having no reason, nor wish, to remain on this cold lump of rock, the familiar slipped back on to the astral and a few moments later quitted it, this time on the nameless world of the old god. It did not present a much more inspiring terrain than that of the shell he had just left, but at least it was the correct world. Around him Elfloq could discern the sheer cliffs and daunting crags of Nacramonte, its precipitous stone walls and buttresses lifted ever upwards in mockery of the heavens. From somewhere on the rim of the dizzy heights came a red glow—the fortress of the old god must be there, its beacons shedding what little light they could.