by Will Wight
Jerri grips her artifact tight. “I call out to you, my Elders, that you may hear my cry. Come to me!”
Without warning, the vision shifted.
Naberius raises the Heart into the air. “I WILL BE REBORN!”
And shifted again.
Lucan drives the blade into the ground. “You will be called Syphren, the Whispering Death!”
In Calder’s mind, it was like three bombs exploding at once.
The trance forcibly broke, leaving Calder to stumble. Andel cried out and grabbed him by the elbow, hauling him backwards before he dropped off the edge.
“What just happened?” Foster asked, his voice shaken. Calder had almost forgotten—the gunner should have been able to sense it too.
All around them, air and earth trembled with the sound of a woman’s laughter. Space twisted and distorted, shadows growing longer, trails of dust rising from the floor like wisps of smoke.
And it was getting very cold.
“We’re leaving right now,” Calder commanded, and leaped up the ladder.
“What about Urzaia?” Andel asked, though he followed close behind.
“I’m afraid that an interruption right now would just kill him. If he survives long enough, I’ll come back for him.” He left unsaid that if they stayed on the island, all they could do was die alongside him.
When they reached the top of the shaft, the three Navigators ran desperately for the shore, Calder in the lead. But they had only covered a few yards when they ran across Naberius, laughing and dancing with the Heart of Nakothi grasped in his left hand.
He no longer looked anything like the polished Imperial hero who had first shown himself on The Testament’s deck. His hair was twisted and snarled, his face covered in scratches, and his eyes were wide with madness. His smile looked like a madman’s grimace rather than a grin, and his red suit was shredded, the white shirt beneath splattered with gray-green blood.
Andel and Calder pulled their guns, ready to fight, but Foster was faster.
He clubbed Naberius over the back of the head with the butt of his pistol.
The Chronicler staggered and turned on them in anger. He began to raise his hand, and Calder sensed the burning of his malicious Intent. He had no idea what tricks Naberius could perform now that he was a Soulbound, and he had no intention of finding out.
Foster hit him again, and this time Naberius’ eyes rolled up into their sockets. He fell on his chin, the Heart of Nakothi tumbling from a limp hand.
“Time was, I could have done that in one shot,” Foster said, shaking out the hand holding the pistol. “Must be getting old.”
Andel threw Naberius over his shoulder, and Calder used the corner of his jacket to pick up the Heart. Its malice seeped into him, even through the cloth, and he shuddered as he dumped it into his pocket. The last thing he wanted was to pick up a vision from something they’d pried out of the Dead Mother’s body.
All around them, the inhuman laughter continued to echo unnaturally loud, rising into a shriek.
As they continued to run, Andel carrying Naberius over his shoulder and Calder trying not to think about the Heart, Foster spoke. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but who’s that laughing?”
“Nakothi,” Calder said, at the same time Andel said, “The Dead Mother.”
“Huh. Let’s run a bit faster, then, shall we?”
Calder couldn’t argue with that.
~~~
The edge of the island wasn’t far from the hidden entrance to the arena: it took them about ten minutes of running to reach. On the few occasions that they ran into a Consultant, Calder drove them away with the power of the Emperor’s crown.
As they looked out onto the blue expanse of the Aion, and as he’d hoped, the familiar green-veined sails of The Testament bobbed just offshore, a shadow floating beneath the hull.
But there wasn’t much of a coast on this coast. The island terminated abruptly in a jagged row of rocks sticking up from the cliff like teeth in a lower jaw. Calder walked up, peering through the jagged stones to the sea below.
As he’d feared: a sheer cliff, with nothing but more rocks and white surf beneath them.
“It’s possible that this could pose a problem,” he said.
Andel walked up and took a look for himself, leaning over with Naberius on his shoulder until it looked like he might dump the Chronicler over. He didn’t seem too concerned about the possibility. “Can you call for a ride?”
Calder raised his hand purely for effect as he stretched out his mind to The Testament. He could sense the presence of his Soulbound Vessel even at this distance, and could still call on its power to some degree. But steering the ship or raising the sails wouldn’t help him now, and he could barely feel the Lyathatan at all.
When Calder shook his head, the Quartermaster was already moving along the edge, hostage on his shoulder. “Move the ship,” Andel said. “We’ll meet it farther down the coast.”
“It’s my ship, and I think I’m the one who’s supposed to give the orders.”
“Then we await your orders, Captain.”
“Very good, Andel.” Calder sent a mental command to his Vessel. “I’ve moved the ship. We should meet it farther down the coast.”
“If you insist.” Andel had never stopped jogging in that direction.
If anything, the distortions had grown stronger since they left the cavern. Air warped in the distance, like a heat haze, and bits of grass and soil tore themselves free from the ground and rose into the air. Rather than lifting straight up, they seemed to be flying towards a point over the center of the island.
And through it all, above it all, the Dead Mother’s laughter rose to a screech.
“She laughs...pretty good...for a corpse...” Foster panted.
The laughter sharpened to a squeal, like a sheet of metal tearing, but stretched into impossibility. Calder covered his ears with both hands, and still the sound made him feel as if his head would start bleeding.
Andel stopped and tilted his hat back, staring up at the sky over the island. “Light and life...” he whispered.
A bright white dot appeared over the Gray Island, directly in the circle of sky between walls of gray.
And from that spot, like roots pushing out from a seed, a nest of tentacles pushed out into the world. These weren’t the limbs of an octopus, or the dark green writhing appendages on Shuffles. These tentacles were pale, the color of flesh, with bones visible through the tight skin. And instead of suction cups, the tendrils were covered in what seemed to be thousands of opening and closing hands.
The tentacles lowered to the ground like the skirt of a dress settling, and more of the gigantic creature appeared from inside the white spot. Its torso was skeletally thin, a mottled white and blue and purple, as though it was covered in a bruise. Its arms came out next, multi-jointed and longer than trees, with hands that curled into claws. Its neck, too, looked unnaturally long, and when its head was revealed...
Calder caught a brief glimpse of its head before he had to jerk away, taking deep breaths to avoid vomiting. The creature’s head was a chaos of eyes, mouths, waving stalks, and cages of bone containing pulsing organs—parts that just should not be anywhere near a head.
As a whole, the giant towered over the island, giving the impression of a skeletal woman with a writhing, living skirt and a gut-twisting, repulsive face.
He had read of such creatures. Anyone who studied classical Imperial history would have. Sadesthenes had spoken of them in his most famous history: “Dread of aspect and thin of frame, I would have thought these creatures Great Elders themselves had I not received testimony from both the Emperor himself and the inimitable Estyr Six. They are tapestries of flesh and nightmare, these Handmaidens of Nakothi.”
“Time to change plans again!” Calder said, his voice high and panicked. “Let’s jump.”
“There is no chance we’d survive,” Andel responded, still calm, though Calder noticed that he was looking directly away from the Hand
maiden. “That...thing isn’t looking for us. Nothing has changed.”
The Handmaiden let out a bobbing whistle that sounded curiously similar to the Dead Mother’s laughter from a few moments before. The white light above her expanded abruptly to the size of the moon, and then shattered. The pieces, strangely, were tiny and black, and they scattered out like a parasol over the whole island.
One of the pieces landed nearby, sending up a ring of dirt and dust. It raised itself from the crash, a hideously bloated bladder of fat squeezed between a bone cage. The monster hissed as it spotted them, waddling closer and raising a stone club in its single, oversized hand.
Children of Nakothi, called to battle by their Handmaiden. And the Gray Island was covered with them.
Andel hurried for the edge. “The Captain’s right, let’s jump. You first, Naberius.” He raised the Chronicler’s body and started to sling him over the edge, but Calder stopped him.
His mind boiled furiously, just as if he were frantically looking for an advantage in the middle of a negotiation. There had to be something he could use to get out of this. Something that would give him the edge he needed. Something that he’d saved for just such an occasion.
An idea struck him, and his hand shot to the vile organ in his jacket pocket. Gripping it felt like holding a slimy bundle of insects and rotting garbage; he had to force himself to keep touching it for longer than an instant. Its song eroded the edges of his mind, prying at his Reader’s senses, looking for a gap to worm its way in and drive him insane. It was so much more powerful than when they’d first arrived; it would find a way in, if he gave it the time.
Good thing he didn’t need to hold it for long.
Hopping up onto one of the rocks, Calder pitched the Heart of Nakothi off the cliff and into the sea.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There were none of the Great Elders more widely respected than Kelarac, whose name means ‘Collector of Souls.’ In myth and legend, he has the reputation of a shrewd bargainer whose deals more often than not spell doom for the other party.
The common understanding, in this case, comes surprisingly close to historical fact. Though no man but the Emperor remembers Kelarac’s true shape, records of his rule still exist. Kelarac was the only known Great Elder without a specific domain, wandering as he did among the territories of his brothers and sisters. He gathered his power from humans, granting their wishes in exchange for an item of value: invested artifacts, personal allegiance, stolen relics of the other Elders, even blood or sanity.
Kelarac is chained to a drowned city somewhere beneath the Aion, but reports of his activity continue throughout the centuries. More contemporary legend suggests that one may summon his attention in the same way that one summons a lesser Elderspawn; namely, through focused application of Intent. However, any plea for Kelarac’s attention first requires a sacrifice. An object, valuable to you, tossed into the Aion where his minions can retrieve it. There is no guarantee that such a sacrifice will warrant Kelarac’s attention, only that without it, you may be assured of summoning only his apathy.
To survive a bargain with the Soul Collector, one must be exceptionally clever. And exceptionally desperate.
-Artur Belfry, Imperial Witness, in a confidential report commissioned by the Blackwatch.
Eleven Years Ago
Calder drifted in a sea of frozen darkness, blood leaking into the water around him. The rest of his body was numb with the cold, so it didn’t seem fair that his cut hand still burned. Still, from everything he’d learned among the Blackwatch, the wound was necessary.
He didn’t know much about summoning Elders, but between the blood and the pain and his own impending death by hypothermia, he imagined that he was presenting a feast to every dangerous predator in the whole of the Aion Sea. Any Elder that couldn’t sense this was blind, deaf, and not worth his attention.
Just like Alsa Grayweather had tried for almost two years, Calder cast his Intent into the water, summoning Elderspawn.
Come to me! I summon thee! Someone help!
Readers required only focus of Intent, not speech; technically, it wasn’t necessary to imagine speaking in order to invest an object. But every Reader that Calder had ever met used words to focus their thoughts.
This time, Calder didn’t fully understand the summons, so he hoped the clarity of his desperation would make up for what he lacked in specificity. Whoever you are, come now! I require your power!
It was easier than Calder had expected.
One second, he floated in freezing black; the next, he sat on a low couch next to a blazing fire.
He was dry and warm, resting in a sitting room straight out of the ancient Empire. The walls were monuments of polished stone, supported by intricately carved columns. Every entrance was a door-less arch, and the walls were padded with tapestries just as the floor was lined with brightly patterned carpets.
He should have been startled by the abrupt transition, but he was mostly just relieved. Encounters with Elders were supposed to be nightmarish and dramatic, not plush and comfortable. If this was the typical experience of a summoner, then he should try sending summons more often.
Calder leaned forward, warming the remembered chill from his fingertips, when suddenly a voice spoke from next to the fire.
“Welcome, Calder Marten! Those who knock at my door are too often misers, but you have left me such gifts.”
He looked to the right, only slightly surprised to see a seated man where a moment ago had only been empty space.
The man reminded Calder of no one so much as the Emperor. He had the dark skin of a full-blooded Heartlander as well as the poise of good breeding, and he had draped himself in shiny fabrics. A robe of cloth-of-gold was embroidered with a climbing serpent and closed with a sash of orange. Jeweled rings flashed on every finger, layers of necklaces fanned over his chest, and loops of gold hung from his ears. He was not hairless, as the Emperor seemed to be: the hair on his head was trimmed short, his beard limited to a thin goatee.
But by far his most remarkable features were his eyes. Or rather, the device that covered them.
A band of some silver metal circled his whole head, with bolts where his eyes should have been. It was as though someone had fashioned him a steel blindfold and then bolted it into his sockets.
Calder stopped staring at the man, looking for any similarity to Shuffles, and tried to recall his previous comment. Gifts.
Calder had no idea what gifts he was talking about, but he wasn’t going to expose his ignorance at the very beginning of a negotiation. He gave his best smile, though he didn’t know if the man could see it. “Of course! I would not send out such an invitation without something to welcome you.”
The man spread his hands like a salesman demonstrating his wares, and suddenly a table appeared on the floor before him. Spread out on the surface of the table, arranged on cushions of velvet, were seven simple objects. Objects that Calder recognized.
One, a small hammer that he had invested to break stone. Another, a spool of thread invested to bind a man’s hands and feet. They were his contingency tools, packed to help break his father out of prison and abandoned into Candle Bay when they proved themselves unnecessary.
“I must say, it was unwise of you to send such a message so broadly,” the man said. “There are others of my siblings with holdings in this sea, and none of them so generous as I.”
“Then I am greatly pleased that my call reached your ears,” Calder said graciously. “What may I call you, sir?”
The man smiled, revealing a pair of teeth capped in gold. “I was once called the Father of Merchants, the Lord of Coin. The Gambler’s Delight, they named me, and Miser’s Bane. I was the Keeper of the Vaults, the Hoard-gatherer, the Seeker of Treasures. Now, I believe, men call me Kell’arrack.”
“Kelarac,” Calder repeated, his mouth suddenly dry.
Kelarac licked his lips as thought tasting the word. “Kelarac...is that how it is said, these days?
Human language changes so quickly. It is a name I favored, though. Collector of Souls.” He rubbed his hands together, a man expecting a feast. “What have you come to purchase with your soul, Calder Marten?”
Calder felt like he had slid a foot out on thin ice, only to find out that there was no ice at all. Only deep, dark seas filled with hungry sharks.
Tread carefully, Calder. Whatever you do, don’t mess this up.
If he focused his Intent any harder, he would end up investing himself.
“I apologize for bothering you, Lord Kelarac,” Calder said, with an attempt at a seated bow. “I was seeking a lesser member of your…entourage.”
Kelarac adjusted the steel band over his eyes like a man fiddling with his spectacles. “I see. Caught a bigger fish than you expected, did you? If that is the case, I will be more than satisfied to take your gifts and walk away. Simply…throw me back.”
He started to rise, but Calder threw out a hand to stop him. “Please wait just a moment, Lord Kelarac. It’s possible that we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”
Kelarac seated himself once more, plucking a grape from thin air and pushing it into his mouth. “You have my attention, Reader of Memory.”
“Two of my companions and I are trapped on some rocks in Candle Bay. A number of armed men are closing in around us. I had hoped to call something big enough to carry us to shore.”
That was what the Blackwatch were trying to do with The Testament, after all: summon something that could drag a whole ship through the ocean. If he called a creature that wouldn’t or couldn’t listen to reason, well, he always had his seven nails.
Kelarac laughed, and it was surprisingly…ordinary. The room didn’t shake like an earthquake, and Calder didn’t feel his brain dribbling out his ears. It was simply the laugh of a man hearing an amusing story.
“I did not realize you were so young, Calder Marten, even for one of your kind. I doubt you understand how improbable your survival was.”
“I’m beginning to,” he said honestly.
