by Marc Secchia
“Ay,” he replied at once. “Lucan’s manservant. But what–he was Janos, right? Of course! But what you describe is impossible, this transfer of minds from one person to another.”
“He helped design the Banishment,” I said, trying not to appear as though I was enjoying holding more knowledge than Eliyan–for once. “With his eidetic memory and unique Synthesizer abilities he was able to hold the entire design in his mind and work out the complex interaction of its component parts. And, I assume, this is how he was able to transfer his memories to me.”
The Sorcerer winced as though I had just struck him with a cudgel. But after a moment, a slight smirk appeared on his lips and he exclaimed, with satisfaction, “I knew there was something important hidden in that brain of yours, Arlak-torfea! So it is possible, apart from the Banishment, to cut a mind out of the gyael-irfa. Most instructive.”
“A highly evolved form of the guardtower will. A special invention of Janos’.”
And all the dark-robed Sorcerers and Warlocks gathered around, nodded and muttered as though I held court before some grim cabal.
“So … El Shashi, what happens when the Wurm strikes the Banishment’s magic?”
I surveyed the wall of faces. “That’s a little more tricky, Eliyan-tor. P’dáronï and I love to spend–I mean, loved …” I had to force words past the lump in my throat. “Oh, Mata! We spent so many makh examining every facet of the 327 subcomponents of the Banishment spell–”
Eliyan clapped his hands sharply. “Torbin! Summon your best and brightest scholars! We have work to do. And we must do it this night, or never. We must dissect this man’s brain.”
“Dissect?”
“Slip of the tongue, El Shashi!” He looked rather more cheerful than I would have warranted. “Aulynni–our Jyla–was Myki Mahdros incarnate. Did she die to pass through the Banishment? No. She lives as with her second life. She turned into a Karak. If she can escape, so can we.”
“And she’s insane,” Amal put in, “likely as a result of her escape. Perfect plan, Eliyan.”
Come the morn, the Transformed gave vent to a weird, prolonged wailing that made my hackles stand aggressively on end, before they turned and streamed back into their caves and lairs beneath Birial. I had not slept, but simply refreshed my throat and my body as I held court before the throngs of Sorcerers and scholars that Torbin thrust before me. All day long I was the ulule of all tales. All day I spoke, reasoned, and recalled every word and deed stored in Janos’ memories that could possibly be of use to us, and many that were not. But nowhere was succour to be found. As I well knew, the magic of the Banishment was a perfect edifice, the construct of a fastidious mind of unparalleled genius.
Toward noon, Eliyan, Amal and I sat over a simple stew–mine a bowl of ibex meat, while they partook of a vegetable mash fit more for porkers than for human mouths, in my opinion–and laid our options upon the table.
Eliyan said, “If the Wurm punches through the Banishment storm–”
“And if it still has the Portal in its belly,” Amal added.
I said, “The Karak will attack it.”
“Indeed,” Amal nodded. “But we must assume it will reach the Dark Isle. The drive to reach you, brother-mine, seems to trounce all else … even the Karak, surely, cannot hinder a beast of that size?”
“If the Wurm reaches Birial,” Eliyan said, “you must convince it to regurgitate the Portal.”
“I must … what? That’s your plan?”
Amal laid her hand on mine. Her dark eyes, so disturbingly a mirror of my quoph, were filled with unspoken sympathy. I knew she thought of P’dáronï. “We don’t know where Jyla is or what she might be planning, brother-mine. But we must prevent her from using or abusing the Wurm’s power. If we can get the Wurm to expel the Portal, we think there’s a chance we can anchor it here on the island, within Sanctuary–”
“–allowing you to modify the Endpoint spell to relocate the Portal’s outlet to another place, somewhere useful–”
“–such as Eldoran. Exactly, Arlak-nih.”
“Reverse the Portal,” Eliyan said, folding his hands over his stomach. He flicked the edge of his bowl dismissively. “Pitiful slop. No wonder these islanders are weak. This is our only chance. We cannot see how to break the Banishment spell–but the Wurm is bringing the Portal to us. It must be Mata’s provision. Reposition, modify the spell, and go home.”
I fell silent, thinking hard, and then suddenly it dawned on me. I gasped, “You expect me to touch the beast … how else …?”
“You can try through your mental link,” said Eliyan, but his expression eloquently denied any chance of that working. “Can you–”
“I still can’t pinpoint it,” I cut in. “It’s as I told you. The storm masks the Wurm’s presence … but my grephe says it will come soon. Perhaps within a few makh. Eliyan, Amal–we must end this whatever the cost.”
“Ay, Arlak.”
“And how will we destroy Jyla?”
“Tobin’s Sorcerers will have to deal with her. If we can get the Portal into Sanctuary–”
“And if the Wurm does not destroy Sanctuary first.”
Eliyan nodded. “That will be your job, Arlak.”
Amal set her bowl aside. “I’m not hungry. I will go communicate this plan to Torbin and his colleagues. We need to think through the options. Beat some kind of plan into shape. What if the Karak stop the Wurm, for example?”
“They will not.”
Amal’s dark eyes burned at Eliyan. “And if they do, Eliyan-nihka?”
“And if Jyla turns the full power of the Wurm on Torbin’s Sorcerers?” I chimed in.
“Karak can be destroyed,” said Eliyan. “But let’s get Torbin.”
My eyes turned to follow Eliyan as he departed. Why had Amal just addressed him in the most intimate form–‘nihka’? If I had learned anything in Eldoran … ay. But I could not contemplate that right now.
The stew had turned to stodge in my mouth, but I chewed it mechanically anyway. Mata knew I might need the strength. And courage. I needed to take my courage into my hands–if only I could find it! I had never purposefully touched the Wurm. Never, in all these anna. Ay, many a time and many a makh I had fled before it like some beaten cur, tail between my legs, yelping my woes to the world. I had clung to that lurmint tree within its very throat. But I had never touched it, except in a waking dream.
I could not even claim I had nothing to lose, nothing left in Mata’s world–for thus I should not lie. But I had much to gain. And the Banished–my new people–and the Eldrik.
As the afternoon grew long and Sanctuary’s lights burned with unblinking zeal, even during the daytime, we fell into a strange time of waiting. There was nought to do but wait. Sorcerers paced the battlements. Knots of Sorcerers and Warlocks readied their spells and their wiles, as best they dared. Wives and husbands and children gathered in the central courtyard, their pale faces turned to the sky as though an answer should resound from there.
The blue of lillia pervaded the storm now, staining even the clouds above us. I realised that the Banishment extended right over the isle. Even flying, there was no escape.
The winds had risen to a low, whistling roar, and the waters around the Dark Isle were churning with their violence. The Karak, sensing Mata knew what, infested those shallows in their restless thousands. Where had they come from? They slopped back and forth amidst the waves like bloated corpses rolling in the wash, the size of small ships, and from time to time they lifted their beaks above the water to click and snap at each other in some unknown language. Their tentacles were thicker than a man’s torso.
The Transformed had vanished with the daylight–but I sensed they too were waiting, their animal instincts telling them of the coming change.
We waited.
The glow of the source of lillia grew imperceptibly brighter, and we waited.
Each makh the Sorcerer took his measurements and declared the storm winds a little strong
er. And we waited.
Eliyan debated with Amal the possibility of finding Jyla down there amongst all those Karak. And we waited.
Torbin strode tall amongst his people and checked their readiness to anchor the Portal. He double-checked every defence and arrangement. He cursed fluidly when he found ought not to his liking. And we waited.
An altercation at the shore drew our attention. A Karak struggled with a group of Transformed. Blood stained the waves around the thrashing bodies. I saw a severed tentacle drift free. How … were there caves beneath the water? That would not surprise me. The waters grew still. The Karak had fed. It retreated slowly, lashing its tentacles angrily. And we waited.
And then the storm began to bulge. The streak of blue twisted and bent upward. The unending note of the wind changed. The mill-race of seawaters foamed and frothed, troubled, turned back in their path.
I stood upon the battlement and gripped the stone so hard my hands ached.
With a thundering bellow that shook Sanctuary to its very foundations, the Great Wurm rammed through.
Chapter 42: The Great Wurm
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.
P’dáronï of Armittal, The Great Wurm
There was neither man nor woman upon that battlement who was not staggered by the Wurm’s advent. Many, especially the Eldrik Warlocks who had been decimated by Jyla’s purge, would have raised Wurms themselves–large and powerful Wurms, for training and for battle. But what could possibly prepare the quoph for such a sight: a flesh-mountain bearing down upon Birial, dwarfing the very hills? A creature that could not be, but was. The Wurm was taller than we stood upon the apex of a fortress atop a steep slope. It was wider than forty Roymerian houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder. A vast dark cavern fringed with jagged mandibles was its mouth, from which billows of magical power, so concentrated they appeared as indigo waves, surged forth with every breath. That maw was large enough to swallow Sanctuary in one gulp.
Such a knowing strikes a man in the pit of his stomach. It is a spear; a gut-clenching awareness of mortality.
I had once seen this creature scrabbling about beneath my athocarium. I had once named it a chest-high mole-run maker. By running before it I had caused the Wurm to crush the Lymarian army and lay their encampment to waste. Then the Wurm had ploughed a new channel for the Nugar, watering the southern deserts. Later, it caused a stormtide to destroy Gethamadi town. And now? Now, in the splendour of its full-grown majesty, I imagined the earth of Mata’s creation itself sought to rise up against humankind.
And, somewhere deep in its belly, the Wurm carried our salvation. Or the hope of it, at least.
Stung from their lethargy, jetting powerful spurts of water from their sacs, the Karak sped across Birial’s dark bay toward the Wurm. They thrashed and brawled through the waters to be the first to assault the great beast and feast off its power. Great rubbery arms slapped against the Wurm’s flanks and found purchase there–upon the Wurm’s armoured segments or upon their fellow creatures, it mattered nought. As the Wurm sailed majestically onward the monstrous, slick black bodies of the Karak were hauled boldly out of the water. Many were rolled and crushed beneath the Wurm’s huge bulk. Legion more disappeared into that gaping maw. But the Karak had gathered in their thousands and their tens of thousands. I knew from experience how large the Karak were–large enough to sink an Eldrik ship. From my vantage point a quarter league from the beach, in comparison to the Wurm, they resembled an infestation of ticks enjoying the blood-rich folds of a jatha’s dewlap. It was inconceivable that even the Karak could harm such a gargantuan creature of magic.
But I wondered if swallowing the Portal had damaged the Wurm. It had been bleeding vast amounts of lillia for makh upon makh, turning the entire Banishment storm a new colour. It was creeping along much more slowly than I had expected.
“The Wurm’s not going to make the beach,” Eliyan said, confirming my suspicions. “Torbin!”
“Advance party!” he shouted.
With grim orderliness the Warlocks and Sorcerers of the Banished formed up in Sanctuary’s courtyard. I watched as they tramped down the beach path, their dark robes billowing with the speed of their descent. Some of their number carried axes, the best hand-weapons the Birial islanders possessed, but the majority had no need of crude weapons. Theirs were the weapons of mind and magic. Eliyan was amongst them. Indeed, he was one of the foremost. I wondered if the prospect of revenge preoccupied his thoughts. Truly told, twenty anna and more of sinking into defeat must change a man. But now the Sorcerer seemed recharged. Since I had seen him upon the platform in Eldoran, he was a different man.
“Mata go before them,” Amal said.
I nodded. “Ay, sister-mine.” She had stayed behind to defend me, if needed. She would much rather have been marching down to the beach with the others, I felt. How was it that he who was once a vegetable farmer in Roymere should now claim a powerful Sorceress for his half-sister? How was it, he ran from a Wurm? That he claimed the healing touch of El Shashi, the man of many names?
Only because he had once betrayed his friend.
I gazed at our war-party, impressed by their mien–until I looked up to the height and breadth of the Wurm, and remembered how easily it sliced through water and sand and rock, and the vast, bestial hungers that consumed its mind. Our tiny band sought to overmaster that beast? The Wurm shuddered. I saw that its deep burgundy rings no longer thrust the ocean aside. It had come to rest perhaps two hundred paces offshore.
Flame exploded along the water’s edge. A soft popping drifted up to our ears, the muted sounds of distant explosions. Black waters blasted into the air, along with bits of flesh and tentacles and great gobbets of indigo-coloured blood. Thick swarms of hornets the length of a man’s calf buzzed angrily around the heads of the Karak. Primordial salt-water crocodiles, all of twenty paces from nose to tail, which had been summoned or raised Mata knew how by the Warlocks, appeared on the dark sands and immediately rushed into the surf to champ their serried ranks of teeth into anything that moved. They snapped off tentacles and chewed large pits in the soft bodies of the Karak. In moments, the ocean was a thrashing mess of animalistic combat.
From the battlements we watched pensively, along with many others, as the battle surged back and forth. The Warlocks and Sorcerers tried to clear a path to the Wurm. The Karak fought back. Several even gained the beach, heaving themselves along upon their tentacles, dragging their weight out of the water with strength that amazed me, until I remembered they also counted upon lillia for their power. Rightly had Torbin noted the Karak were also capable of magic.
I saw Eliyan wading hip-deep in the fray, wielding a sword of blue fire which was several times the height of a man.
“Oh, Mata! I see her!” cried Amal, pointing.
For a breath I thought she was mad, caught in the throes of a divine vision. And then I spotted an enormous Karak sitting squarely atop the Wurm’s back, with a pair of eyes bright with lillia surveying the battlefield, and I knew this creature at once for Jyla–how I shivered! She rallied her Karak with shrill cries. Battalions of squid-bodies formed in the waters, wedges of the creatures that drove our forces back. Soon, a running battle developed between the Birial Islanders and the Karak. As fast as the Warlocks raised creatures, the Karak destroyed them. The Sorcerers attacked with lightning and spinning blades and explosions, wreaking terrible damage, but the numbers were stacked against them. I saw a pair of legs kicking all too briefly in the coiling grip of a tentacle. An isolated Warlock burned a group of Karak with her fire before being overwhelmed from behind. A Sorcerer, launching himself up toward Jyla, was struck down by a sizzle of fire from her eyes.
The link between the Wurm and my mind dimmed by
the moment. But I needed to be down there! I needed to …
“Oh!” I shouted as an idea blazed in my mind. “Amal, we must get the Wurm moving! It’s too far out. Help me. I must feed the Wurm.”
“Feed the–oh! You mean … yes!”
I whirled to locate the person nearest me. He was a young man, apparently a musician who had somehow incurred the wrath of Jyla’s followers and been Banished. I stepped over, muttered, “Excuse me,” and touched his forehead.
A long, complex, fraught moment later, I grasped in my mind the changes required. Power pulsed through my link with the beast. I knew it would be magnified many, many times over when it reached the Wurm. There came a long groan not unlike an earthquake. But I spared the Wurm barely a glance as I moved on to the next person. I shot a prayer Mata-ward, ‘Get that creature moving, o Mata, for all of our sakes …’ I placed my hand on this woman’s arm. She exclaimed softly, feeling her cheek. She pushed back her sleeve to check her arm. A tear trickled down her cheek.
The groan escalated to a roar akin to distant thunder echoing across mountaintops.
Amal stared over the parapet before shaking her head. “More,” she muttered. “Much more.” Waving her hands as though she were a farmer rounding up animals, the Sorceress moved along the battlement. “Quick! Line up for your healing!”
Soon, I began to work my way down a line of people eager for a relieving touch. The changes wrought by the Dark Isle’s magic were no mere skin condition; an underlying subtlety baffled me. I could restore them, ay. But I did not understand it. Nor did I need to. I thrust my doubts aside and concentrated on sending a flurry of lillia winging over to the Wurm. When I paused to mop my forehead, I saw it had shifted closer to the beach. But it was not enough. The Karak fed voraciously. I helped them against our own people.
Those hundred paces or so separating the Wurm from the beach seemed insurmountable. Could a Sorcerer fly me thence? Or would Jyla interfere again? Fire blasted from her tentacles, driving the Sorcerer on the beach to cower behind their shields. She sucked deep of the Wurm’s well, turning the sand into fused glass by the power of her attack.
