The Devoured Earth

by Sean Williams

  ‘Alcaide Braham,’ whispered Shilly. Louder, to the Goddess, she said, ‘I never thought he'd come himself. Not for us.’

  ‘Don't underestimate yourself,’ Ellis said. ‘And remember: this isn't about you. It's about the world and everyone in it. Sometimes even the most myopic of people see beyond their horizons.’

  ‘I wish I was out there,’ said Seth, hovering at Hadrian's side. His clenched fists rested impotently against the Tomb's crystal walls. ‘It's not fair that we're in here, watching everyone else fight.’

  ‘Fight—and sometimes die.’ Hadrian's gaze was drawn to the bodies sprawled on the cold ground.

  ‘That'd be a better way to go than trapped in here forever.’ Seth turned his head to look at him. ‘Isn't that why we came here—to finish it once and for all?’

  ‘That's not the same thing as finishing us.’

  Seth sighed. ‘Maybe you're right. But I'm tired, Hadrian, and I don't see us ever having much of a life in here.’

  Outside, the hole closed; another opened not far away from which issued figures in red, marching in clearly defined ranks across the broken ground. Stone Mages, Hadrian thought, the first they had truly seen. Skender hadn't graduated and Kelloman wasn't in his real body. These were much lighter in colour than the Sky Wardens—some of them were fair enough to have passed for Swedes from the old world—and all, even the eldest, were adorned with tattoos. Again, one taller man caught Hadrian's eye. Dark-haired and severe, with deep wrinkles, a triangular nose and prominent cheekbones, he didn't call out orders, but set to searching among the people of Marmion's party, as though looking for someone.

  Skender, a gangly shape in a black robe, came up to the man from behind and tapped his shoulder. The man turned and, after a visible double take, embraced Skender tightly with both arms.

  Behind them, the second hole winked shut. The sound of devels screaming rose up as wardens and mages carved bright-edged lines through their numbers.

  ‘They'll never be enough,’ said Upuaut, unable to swallow the sneer in his throat.

  ‘On their own? No.’

  A third hole opened in the sky, a dozen metres above the top of the stone scar. From it issued a flotilla of nine Panic blimps, heavily laden with soldiers dressed in the uniforms of both forest nations. The change in conditions caused them to rock and bank, and some of them came under immediate fire from the surviving flying devels. Swift reactions and the occasional explosive release of chimerical energy drove the devels steadily back.

  At the fore of the lead blimp's open gondola stood a third large man, corpulent and bald. Hadrian was certain he had never seen him before, but something about his bearing looked hauntingly familiar.

  ‘That's not Mage Kelloman, is it?’ asked Shilly.

  ‘I think it might very well be,’ replied the Goddess.

  ‘Who's behind all this?’ asked Seth with grudging admiration in his voice. ‘Who organised all this at such short notice?’

  ‘I can tell you that,’ said Shilly. ‘Skender's mother said that yesterday, when the Tomb was opened, seers on both sides of the Divide stopped seeing the future. The wardens and the mages were ready to move just as soon as they found the source of the problem. A long time ago, they probably would've blamed each other for what was happening to them. The Weavers can be thanked for avoiding that.’

  A fourth hole opened just as the third closed. In the same position as the first, it was smaller than any of the others and admitted only a dozen people onto the battlefield. Hadrian recognised none of them, but Shilly knew two.

  ‘Abi Van Haasteren,’ she said, pointing, ‘and the Magister of Laure. Surely she can't have been a Weaver all this time!’

  The Goddess shook her head. ‘Newly inducted, I suspect. The Weavers are all about making ties with isolated communities. This crisis is probably just what they needed to rein in that particular outpost.’

  ‘It's like being a spectator at a grand final,’ said Seth unhappily. ‘But if this is the corporate box, where's the champagne?’

  ‘No champagne yet, boys,’ Ellis scolded them. ‘It's not over.’

  ‘Right. And ghosts don't drink.’

  ‘Only spirits.’ She winked at him. ‘Watch, now. It's important.’

  The Weavers, the Alcaide and a stately woman in red had formed a cluster around Sal. Words flew between them at a rapid pace. Not long into the conversation, all four turned to look at the Tomb.

  Hadrian resisted the impulse to wave like a fool.

  The flying devels were circling Yod like crows. The giant body below had changed shape yet again, growing elegantly curved buttresses enabling a thicker, taller abdomen to rise a greater height out of the water. Hadrian was in awe, despite himself, of the way it quickly turned its Homunculus prison into a weapon. Oval in cross-section and looking like a very large football, it was now studded with new catapults, all of them pulling back to gain tension.

  The Weavers broke apart and shouted orders to the gathered throng. Wardens linked hands and traced strange shapes in the air. Mages drew symbols in the dirt with their toes and gathered in rings around particular boulders. Above, in air growing deeper and denser with the Change, the Panic blimps stopped circling and converged over Yod.

  Devels screeched and attacked. Those of Yod's catapults that were ready to fire did so, sending a dozen missiles hurtling into the sky and across the land. One would have landed in the heart of the Weavers but for the swift action of a group of nearby mages, who fired a missile in return that knocked it off course. The resulting explosion lit up the ominous day and sent glowing fragments in all directions.

  Hadrian looked away, even though he had no physical sight to protect. His eyes were ghostly, like the rest of him—a mirage trapped in the fragile-looking shell of the Tomb.

  ‘Diplomatic immunity,’ Hadrian whispered to Seth. ‘That's how I see it. We've played our role and now we're privileged observers.’

  ‘Diplomats?’ Seth snorted. ‘Representing whom? Mirror twins? Australia? The entire old world?’

  ‘Just us: us against the world and everyone in it.’

  ‘Now you're starting to sound like me.’

  ‘Not at all. That doesn't make the world our enemy. We're just…apart.’

  ‘You're fools,’ said the golem, ‘if you think that makes you different from anyone else.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Hadrian, ‘but at least we have company.’

  Ellis looked up at that and nodded slightly.

  Skender stayed close to his father even though the presence of Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth made him feel uneasy on almost every level. His father was, essentially, a schoolteacher. He didn't frequent battlefields at the top of the world. Yet here he was, striding dourly past bodies and craters, helping his fellows deflect further missiles and applying a tight pressure bandage to a wound on his son's wrist.

  That he had hugged Skender was the biggest shock of all.

  A series of almost melodic whistles heralded the arrival of more projectiles. They hurried for the relative shelter of a rocky outcrop protected by four high-ranking mages. From there they could watch the wardens taking Sal's initial attempt to freeze Yod to its logical conclusion. Waves of the Change had already stilled the water for twenty metres around the giant body. Although it struggled to free itself and rise bodily out of the lake, it could not. For all its bellowing and twisting, it remained stuck fast.

  The Panic and forester contingents stepped up their harassment from above. Explosions pockmarked Yod's already cratered skin. The purple glow under the waterline faded. What few devels remained had long since fled, with Pukje shouting abuse at their retreating backs. Their former master stood alone, and would fall alone if the forces arrayed against it had their way.

  But Yod was far from beaten. In the face of such a concerted attack, its outer shell simply disintegrated. From the pieces within swarmed a hundred camel-sized black fragments, each individually armoured and armed with claws and spike-tipped legs. Skende
r antennae dragged in their wakes like strange tresses. A chorus of oddly musical cries rang out across the ice.

  The wardens instantly changed their tactics, reversing their freezing charm in an attempt to ditch the crab-like forms into the water. The mages joined in, sending waves of heat through the frigid air. It was, however, going to take too long to undo the work they had already done, and the wave of creatures was only metres from the shore. If the devels reached the ranks of mages and wardens, which they easily outnumbered, it would be a bloodbath.

  Skender thought furiously. Yod's new incarnation wasn't an army of individuals; it was still just one being, so the crab-things had to be linked somehow.

  ‘The antennae!’ he shouted. ‘Target the antennae!’

  His father relayed his suggestion through the Change. The mages changed their tactics again and employed simple fire-starting charms to set the trailing antennae ablaze. The effect was instantaneous. Once a crab-thing lost its link to the others, it became a mindless lump, either dropping limp or losing all control of its movements before dwindling away to nothing, disconnected from the charm of the Homunculus and Yod's will. One by one they fell, and the remainder contracted around each other, forcing their way through the bodies and onto the land.

  There the battle raged in earnest. The steadfast ranks of wardens and mages broke up in the face of the rampaging monsters. The Change rose and broke in chaotic surges. Bright lights flashed in all colours of the rainbow, and beyond. One particularly potent charm left Skender sunburnt all down one side. His ears were full of screams and cries, both human and inhuman.

  He tried to lie low, but there was no avoiding the black crab-things. They leapt like ticks from outcrop to outcrop on their powerful legs. One landed above him and his father and raised its spiked forelimbs menacingly. Skender lunged and scored a hit with his knife on its soft underbelly. It screeched and jumped away, taking the knife with it and knocking Skender to the ground. His hand was sticky with thick silver blood.

  A whistle from his father brought a clump of mages to their aid. The next crab-thing to land on the crag lost its antennae and most of its legs in one flash of flame. The body fell smoking down the crater wall and disintegrated with a crack and a flash of light.

  ‘Stand clear!’ The Alcaide's voice rang out clearly over the sounds of battle. ‘Stand clear!’

  Wardens and mages alike fell back. A shadow passed over Skender and he looked up at Panic blimps converging overhead. Two dozen crab-things fought against a ring of defenders holding the creatures in place. They were unable to break free before a rain of explosive missiles blew them to pieces.

  Pieces of fragmented Homunculus rained down on the battlefield, crackling loudly as they evaporated. The stench the pieces gave off was acrid, even over the smell of devels’ gore. Skender fought the urge to gag as he took stock of the situation. The crab-things had wounded mages and wardens, but many still remained, and their lines of defence were re-forming.

  Two leaping crab-things collided in midair. Locking legs, they landed with shells facing outwards, forming a tumbling armoured ball that rolled rapidly downhill. One mage was flattened, unable to leap out of the way in time. Explosions blossomed around it, but the ball was too quick. It vanished into the water, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake.

  ‘It's running!’ called the Alcaide. ‘Don't let it get away. Stop it at all costs!’

  Mages and wardens changed their tactics as fast as Yod. Three more armoured balls formed, but only two made it to the water. The rest were torn apart before the armour could completely seal. All other attempts to form the balls were foiled in mid-leap, while a contingent of wardens tracked the two that had made it away. Ice-making charms brought them bobbing back to the surface, embedded in rime.

  The number of crab-things on the loose dropped steadily, until only a handful remained, then two, then none. Skender walked out of his shelter, feet crunching on the jointed legs and fragments of devel that formed a grisly carpet across the battlefield. He could scarcely think that it might be over. A strange calm fell over the assembled ranks of wardens and mages and the other combatants: forester and Panic, blood-worker and more. Pukje landed with a scrabbling of claws and folded his ragged wings. Skender looked for Orma but couldn't see him amongst the assembled faces.

  The Alcaide opened his mouth to say something, but a sharp crack of ice stopped short any speech he might have wanted to make. All eyes turned to the first of the icy balls to rise from the lake. It had come to rest against the shore, and split open like an egg as the creature within struggled free. Strong limbs kicked and muscular sides flexed, widening the gap. With a flurry of claws and antennae, it wriggled free and dropped to the ground.

  ‘Wait,’ said Sal, stepping forward. ‘Let's see what it'll do next.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the Alcaide as the second ice-ball began to rock and crack.

  ‘It's lost. There's only one thing it can do now—and I fail to see how that can hurt us.’

  ‘You can't be serious.’

  ‘I'm not the joking type.’

  ‘No. But…this?’

  Sal ignored the Alcaide's protest and walked downhill to where the two sole remaining fragments of Yod were combining into one new shape. Skender went to do the same, but stopped at the sound of footsteps from further up the slope. The Tomb had opened, allowing Shilly egress. She flicked devel remains out of her way with the tip of her cane. Behind her, the glast had descended from its elevated position and was rapidly catching up, Mawson's head balanced adroitly in one hand.

  Skender stayed where he was, sensing that this was their moment, not his. The Alcaide, too, hung back, looking puzzled and annoyed at being so publicly defied.

  A hideous cracking and creaking came from Yod's evolving form. Knobbly carapace bubbled and ran like thick mud. Insectile limbs melted and merged to form larger, thicker shapes. It grew taller, twice as high as a person, and formed a distinct trunk. A sphere took shape at its summit. Its base divided in two; a pair of distinct limbs sprouted from the base of the sphere.

  ‘Goddess,’ Skender breathed, understanding at last what was going on. It was taking human form. Giant, but definitely human.

  Sal stopped five metres from the evolving shape. Once the broad outlines were complete, finer details began to appear: fingers, shoulders, knees, a neck. The head took on features that were accurate in every anatomical detail—nostrils, lips, eyelids, hair—but looked as lifeless as a man'kin. The eyes didn't track to look at Sal or the others. Its hair didn't move in the breeze. It was a fake on every level, from textureless black skin to its heart, and Skender shuddered to look upon it.

  ‘This is the end,’ Sal said, ‘and you know it. Will you surrender to us?’

  Yod didn't respond. Its empty gaze remained locked on a distant point, far beyond the crater wall.

  ‘You should talk to us, otherwise we're just going to kill you,’ Sal persisted. ‘I know that'd be the right thing to do, but isn't there another way? Could you leave, or coexist with us in peace?’

  The artificial form shivered as though mice were crawling under its skin, but still it said nothing.

  Shilly joined Sal and leaned on her walking stick next to him. The glast stood on her other side. She looked up at the expressionless visage with her eyes narrowed.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked it.

  Instead of responding in words, a feeling radiated from it, a dense wave of emotion that spread like honey from person to person, hitting Skender with such force that he almost cried out. The feeling wasn't loneliness, exactly, but aloneness, more complete and irrefutable than any feeling Skender had ever had before. He was unique in all the universe. There was nothing and no one quite like him anywhere.

  With that feeling came a thought, a certainty, that life was the only material that mattered to the universe. Everything else was detritus, a by-product of life's creation. He was the eye of the universe turned inward on its many realms, a spark of intelligence th
at illuminated what might otherwise have been an empty void.

  To be the pinnacle of creation was one thing, and a very important thing indeed, but to be at all required direction, movement, purpose. It required something to push against. As he swam through the universe, he encountered resistance, and the resistance, once overcome, made him stronger. As his strength grew, so did his hunger and his need to move. He rode an avalanche of needs and urges that led him from realm to realm in search of new worlds, new pastures, new feeding grounds.

  To see and to eat were the same thing. Appetite and appreciation were inseparable. The all-seeing eye of the universe was simultaneously the all-devouring mouth, and that was right. That was good. That was the way things worked.

  To be one of a kind was just fine, as long as there was plenty to see and eat. And where will resisted him in force, he knew his feasting would be finest…

  Skender understood it all in a flash. He raised his eyes and gazed on the visage of Yod, which now seemed not aloof and alien at all but resolute and worthy of awe. Who was he to question the motives and morals of a being so far beyond him that to it he was little more than a speck? A morsel to be swallowed and forgotten. Humans didn't ask wheat if it was bothered by its imminent consumption. Why would Yod? Its perceptions of the universe were so far superior to humanity's that Skender seemed barely alive in comparison. It saw so much; it was so much. And it must continue to be. Would Skender hesitate to take the last piece of fruit from a tree in order to save a starving man's life?

  No, Skender thought. He wouldn't.

  As though tugged by a string, his right hand came up to offer himself to Yod in order that the eye of the universe would never close.

  The glast got there first. Stepping in front of Sal and Shilly, who were staring with rapturous adoration at the figure towering over them, the glast took hold of one of Yod's hands and bit down on it, hard. Yod flinched away, too late, and in a wild, sudden rush, lost its human form. The glast dropped lifeless to the ground with the sound of glass shattering as Yod's Homunculus body ballooned in an explosion of strange growths. Mawson's head rolled helplessly away.