by Marc Secchia
“I’ve sent for refreshments,” he said, offering his hand.
I struggled to my feet and growled at P’dáronï, “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”
She did not cringe. A tiny inclination of her head indicated her apology, but I noticed the muscles of her jaw tightened. Ay, she felt she had done right.
Eliyan exclaimed, “But it is the truth! And we have learned something, Arlak-torfea … something in which you will take great interest.”
“Ay, I have learned to fear for my very life,” I almost snarled, “when you start to find things ‘interesting’!”
But Eliyan laughed gleefully, even clapping his hands in excitement. “Indeed! Mark this: the Web only exists when you’re conscious.” Every hair on my nape stood on end. “Don’t you see, Arlak? It means you are the Wurm!”
“No, no–”
“Yes, and a hundred times yes!” Mata curse his amusement at my expense! “Why do you think the Council found nothing when they interrogated you? You were drugged. Why do you think we found nothing? Because the Web of Sulangi has always been applied to inanimate objects and insects. No Sorcerer has ever found a way to apply it to a living being without killing them. Were it not for P’dáronï’s unique insight it might not even have been discovered–”
“I’m not some specimen to be dissected by you lot!”
I fell trembling back into my seat, surprised and embarrassed by my fist-thumping outburst.
“These are your fears speaking, Arlak,” P’dáronï pointed out.
Truly told, but–accept Eliyan’s assertion? I should rather die. Easier by far shift all blame to the Wurm, or Jyla, I told myself, than to admit my own transgressions. Here in the mirror of self-realisation I beheld a loathsome ugliness.
The Sorcerer studied me over his interlaced fingers. “That I could peel back the layers of that onion atop your shoulders and delve within, my young friend! But I’m not without compassion. By your will alone, Arlak Sorlakson, shall it be done. That is my wish, and my vow.”
Amal raised her hand in the Eldrik buskal of justice. “A true word has been spoken. May Mata honour this vow.”
I nodded, trying somehow to rediscover my calm. “Thank you.”
“But know this,” Eliyan rushed on. “If your heritage here in Eldoran is unmasked by Jyla’s agents, as it surely will be, then your life will be doubly forfeit. And Amal’s too. Your time in Eldoran must come to an end.”
“Ah!” P’dáronï breathed.
Unbidden, her fingers found mine beneath the tabletop. A simple touch that conveyed much. Now that our fears had found voice, our time together suddenly became the more bittersweet. My voice trembled as I clarified, “You were talking about the Dark Isle? The place I saw through the portal … where Pedyk was sent?”
Eliyan again turned his most searching gaze upon me. “You confound me once more, Arlak. Few indeed see through the mists to the other side–not even I. Amal? P’dáronï?” Both shook their heads. “Tell us what you saw.”
“A low, grey isle amidst heaving seas Nethe-bent on dragging it back down into the deep. I saw tentacles, like the octopi so beloved of Rhumian cuisine, but many times larger, rising from the dark waves.”
“The Karak. They breed amongst the reefs and rocks of Birial.”
Amal smiled. “And here I thought the Karak were children’s stories made up to scare the unruly and the rebellious.”
“Truly told, and I thought jerlak a legend until we saw a herd attack a carter on the road between Yarabi Vale and Elaki Fountain.” I had not thought about this incident since my childhood. “He was beating one of his jatha, which had gone lame. His animal was breathing blood from its nose. Next moment these fifty or more jerlak stampeded out of the forest. There was nought left but splinters trampled in the mud.”
I forced a pallid smile to my lips. “Now, there remains much untold, and matters where, Mata forgive me, I have lied outright. I must mend these fences ere I depart. For you are my family and I cannot bear this deception longer.”
I left Eldoran as I had come, under a cloud of secrecy–but not by sorcery this time, but aboard a three-masted, deep-bellied tollish ship, an Eldrik seagoing vessel. Elegant enough for hauling freight, thought I, examining its lines with a jaundiced eye, but it lacked the sleek, spearing thrust of the Eldrik warships moored beneath the bluffs to my left hand. Our silken white topsails snaffled the first glimmering of dawn. At the rail a cool-fingered breeze ruffled my hair, grown shoulder-length in keeping with local fashion, but risible in the Fiefdoms. I must remember to have that cut! The mariners chanted as they worked the oars. Slowly the gap between the ship and the wharf grew. As did the gap in my quoph.
No-one had come to see me off. This was adjudged too dangerous, for in truth, Eliyan had already detected what he called ‘ripples’ in the gyael-irfa. Our doings? I thought back to his final admonition. ‘Hide yourself,’ he charged me. ‘Hide yourself deep, where this Jyla cannot find you–and above all else, refrain from summoning her Wurm. She will know the instant you do. I will alert my trusted Sorcerers. Doubt not any attempt to destroy the Banishment would turn against us, in our present weakness. I must build our strength, our readiness, and our resources against that day. Beware Jyla, who is Myki Mahdros incarnate. She will not easily be thwarted.’
Amal’s parting gift was an amulet affixed to a slim chain, which she placed about my neck. ‘In the makh of your need, use this to call me,’ she said. ‘I will know where you are and come to you, brother-mine, no matter where. This is a sealed magic nought can withstand, and none but I can detect.’ I thanked her, and we embraced. Truly told, I wept.
In my pack I had two books, gifts from P’dáronï. The first was an encyclopaedia of Eldrik medical terms, techniques, and treatments, a mighty tome indeed. The book is a peculiarly Eldrik invention, for we Umarites prefer the scrolleaf. The second was P’dáronï’s own work–doubtless prepared by her personal scribe–a volume that summarised our different discussions and discoveries, and contained a section of her poetry.
Ah, the manifold intricacies of femininity! I knew not whether to smile or grit my teeth. When I bade her to fare well, I wished to grant her the gift of sight. But P’dáronï refused again. ‘Think upon this,’ she said gently, doubtless sensing my disappointment. ‘You would not be healing me, for you cannot heal what has never been whole. It would mean creating my sight anew, as if you and Mata were one. And I believe that the power of creation is Hers alone. It is not for any man, nor woman, to claim.’
Was this a true word? I told myself she was afraid of the unknown, of damaging her abilities. Was it possible, indeed, that her abilities were linked to her blindness?
I ached nonetheless.
As I gazed over the soaring spires of Eldoran, I had to wipe a mist from my eyes in order to pick out the slender plinth of Warlock’s Roost. Nigh four anna of my life spent here. I left a changed man. Changed forever.
The rising sun burnished each peak of the Ammilese March like a spear tipped with molten gold. Part of me remained out there … somewhere, wondering if this was a last farewell. I raised my hand to my cheek where P’dáronï had kissed me. Arlak-nevsê, she had whispered. Arlak-my-soul. Her tears had mingled with mine. How desperately close I clutched her slight form, unwilling to ever let her go.
Ay, beyond those mountains lay her birth-heritage. She was born in a land ruled by the fierce Nummandori Overlords, a race of creatures she described as older and wiser than either the Eldrik or the Umarik races. Little did they care for the affairs of human beings. Sold as common merchandise–what a fate! I could scarce imagine what it must mean for families, and lives, to be torn apart by such an Ulimspawn trade.
What a life she had already lived.
Quietly, I reflected: Did I understand even the smallest jot of her ways, this P’dáronï of Armittal? Could it be Mata’s will that every person should be whole? Truly whole? That none should suffer in body, mind, or soul, or sickness, or hurt
of any kind? What a world that would be! Did the yammariks not preach such fables of the afterlife, for those who follow the paths of Mata? But for many people I had known, Nethe was the here and now, not some unknown future, and the magnitude of their suffering … oh Mata! It was too much to bear.
So could I tell–or was this Mata’s province alone to answer–whether I encompassed the power to create newness of life within a person, or merely to salve a wound, to mend brokenness, and grant the dying another day? And how should I know when to stop trying and let a person pass on in peace?
Is it worse to attempt a healing and fail, than never to have hoped at all?
And should a man understand how to value love, and life itself, if he knows not their opposites of pain or hate, and death?
Was her blindness curse … or gift?
Chapter 22: Upon the Gulf of Erbon
The Faloxx is nought but a savage, unfit to be called human; wont to sup upon the flesh of his fellows, making laughter of torture, and building such bone-piles as would please none but Ulim Godslayer, furnishing the hellish halls of Nethe itself.
Lorimi the Historian: Peoples of the Fiefdoms
I lounged upon the deck, gazing up at the billowing rows of white merriol silk sails that soared above our vessel, and wondered what it must have been like for my mother and father to make this selfsame voyage, the voyage where the bindings of love ensnared their hearts forever, amidst the turquoise waves silver-shot by flying fish, the harmonious singing of the mariners, and the vast tapestry of stars that robed the nights in majesty. It was easy to believe in Mata out here. The worst injury I had to attend was a broken wrist.
South we sailed, and east, toward the Nxthu Straits and Faloxxir, land of the cannibal Faloxx. A pleasant breeze lent our sails full bellies. The crew lolled about idly, save to preserve what shade they could against the sultry Doublesun heat, and to occasionally trim a sail or adjust a rope. I opened P’dáronï’s book. She had asked me to read a word of knowledge–similar to a grephe, I imagined–that she had written about my life. It was entitled The Great Wurm.
A chill-tremor clasped my spine in ice. But when I looked about, nary a cloud blemished the sky, nor was ought else amiss.
Truly told, for a moment I imagined I espied a blue condor, but when I marked it but a common grey come to perch amidst the rigging, I laughed at my fright. Twice only, in the greatest extremity, Arlak–what had I to fear out here? Sunburn? Sholfish? Just look at those superstitious fools, all agog at the condor’s appearance!
As I bent closer to the beautiful script, the faint scent of P’dáronï’s favourite perfume, limnisflower, tantalised my nostrils. I had to dab my leaking eyes. Be cursed to Hajik, was I once more doomed to lose a woman I held so dear?
“At least I treated her right,” I muttered, feeling mordant at my past failures. “Mata, must I once more walk this road alone?”
At least I now had friends working with me. And a great list of new enemies, headed by this Talan, and Soymal, Head of the Inquisitors–who I had seen at Pedyk’s Banishment before I knew who he was. He must have led my torture. In Eliyan’s estimation, ‘A viper, not a man, Arlak. A more poisonous creature I have never met.’
Was Jyla therefore working for them, against them, or even without their knowledge?
My quoph was laden with loss. Did this latest grief not serve to remind me the more eloquently of my children, Sherya, Lailla, Jerom, and Illia, and of all the Sorceress had torn away from me? How old would they be now?
Nay. Deliberately, I closed that door and turned back to the text.
Be it known: legend is his mantle,
Eldest of his race, the awesome progenitor of all burrowing creatures,
Name him God-mountain, sleeping at the root of the world,
Exalted and cunning in ancient ways,
The Great Wurm, the wellspring of power.
He shall rise on a fateful day, lament it,
As El Shashi’s last stumble crosses the waters,
Royal voice of thunder, and lightning that rends the sea’s belly,
Yes, he will rise from the depths,
And from amidst the dark creatures will he appear,
Not to kill but to heal, not to break but to summon,
No longer to plough the desert as before,
Only to await the master’s beck and call,
El Shashi’s duality, the reason that he be.
There was a note at the bottom. I squinted at it and read, ‘I have tried to render the Old Armittalese as best I can, preserving both form and meaning. Thus this Word conforms in no way to Umarite norms of poetry. I thought the first letter of each line noteworthy–they spell ‘Be N’etha ryan no’e’ which translates in the Old Armittalese as, ‘To Nethe consign the ways of yore’. May this Word, and Mata Herself, light your paths always.’
I winced. And now she was a prophetess? Words so potent, they stirred the darkness within me to life. Mata, no … I had to deny my inner Wurm its moment in the sun! Carefully, I reread the poem. This was no matter for the faint of heart. Indeed, my poor store of courage quailed at the very notion, as my imagination supplied an image of the Wurm looming above me like a mountain, gobbling up forests, tearing into the very fabric of Mata’s creation with its insatiable appetite.
God-mountain? The reason for my existence? I did not withhold a snort. Religious double-talk, I muttered to myself as I closed the tome with an irritated snap. I had marked P’dáronï for a woman of plain speech. Fancy my last stumble crossing a sea! Ridiculous. But the notion of ploughing a desert with the Wurm did intrigue me. Use the Wurm for good? Maybe next time I contemplated an act of trivial selfishness!
I wanted no more to do with Mata this day. My grief was too raw; my fears too potent. My eyes had grown heavy-lidded. Tucking the volume beneath my arm, I ducked below decks to find an empty hammock.
“Catch up on your sleep, Arlak,” I declaimed to the empty hold, “and salve the world’s woes on the morrow.”
Should I miss P’dáronï of Armittal less in the depthless makh of my slumber?
Beloved of my soul.
I dreamed ill.
I saw K’huylia, beset by a legion of Ulim’s warriors, her flesh tormented with barbs and rods of burning iron. Tortha, torturing Rubiny upon Janos’ forge door. The smoking ruin of her face screamed abuse at me. The Wurm tore Sherya from my despairing grasp and tossed her down its gullet. Its bloodied mouth transformed into Jyla’s, laughing and mocking. I laboured to heal P’dáronï’s eyes, but they kept clouding over the moment I lifted my hands from her face. At my fifth attempt I opened my hands to reveal Tomira’s features. I recoiled. ‘It is Mata’s will,’ she sneered. ‘Why waste your powers on a defective slave when you could have me? Oh, I forgot, you refused because you were Matabound, you fool! Where is your Matabond of love now?’
I woke disoriented, clutching for the edge of my futon, but instead finding myself rocking violently in a hammock. Alarmed shouts rang above my head. Feet pounded the decks. I heard an ominous grinding sound. Wood splintering? A man’s wail, severed mid-voice. More shouting and banging noises.
The ship was not moving as with waves. It listed heavily to one side.
I crawled on hands and knees to my pack. No way I was about to lose those precious books. Thankfully P’dáronï had seen fit to pack them in dryskin against bad weather. Shipwreck was not what I had imagined! With the pack in tow, I fought my way to the hatch and, raising my head above the decking, had my first shock of the morn.
At first I thought some monstrous serpent was attacking our vessel, for a huge arm-like appendage stretched over the deck between the second and third masts. It had already crushed the railings. Several sails flapped loosely, their ropes snapped. But then I saw another arm upraised, lined with suckers bigger than my hand, and as I watched it slapped down on the deck with massive force. One of the mariners was trying to attack the beast with an axe, but his blows kept slipping aside on the tough, rubbery skin.
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Not the Wurm … I gaped in incomprehension. The creature was trying to climb up the side of the ship. That was the scraping noise I had heard. The sheer bulk of it! As those great arms tightened, crushing a fresh section of the railing, our ship heeled over, and the slippery grey-blue bulk of the creature rose into view. One of the tentacles held something. “Dear Mata!” I gagged. It was the lower half of a man’s body, sheared through just below the ribcage.
Another arm wriggled across the deck. A fourth had clasped the rear of the ship, snarling the rudder. The steersman cowered behind his wheel.
“Pin the beast!” shouted one of the men, casting his harpoon into the tangled mass of arms, where it struck and stuck.
“Karak!” cried another. “Gods have pity on us!”
Further down the deck, I saw three of the crew trying to loosen the ship’s boat from its ties. Wise indeed! And I, rarely a man of notable valour, decided at once to bind my fate with theirs. I crept along the slippery planking, testing each step with feet a-tremble.
I was halfway across the deck when, with a serpentine undulation of its body, the Karak flung another tentacle across the breadth of the ship. It coiled around the mast. Wood groaned in protest as with this new purchase, the creature strove to haul itself higher out of the sea. Its suckers tore strips off the deck-wood. The yard-ends dipped beneath the waves. My feet were scrabbling for a hold, any hold, on an impossible slope, when the rope I clutched began to unravel.
Suddenly the cord shot loose and with a wail I splashed down into knee-deep water, for my boots had caught by chance on the edge of the deck right up against the ruined rail. I glanced to my right. There, close enough to reach out and touch, was the creature’s eye–a sallow orb the breadth of a man’s shoulders, filled with the light of an unholy, utterly alien intelligence. Truly told, ice cased the very marrow of my bones at this spectacle of demoniacal malevolence. I knew the Karak meant to destroy us–perhaps for no reason other than the pleasure of destruction–and drag the ship to the bottom of the sea if it were able.
