Without pause, the assassin approached the entry to the ruins from where echoed the mournful, droning cries of blood-mad wraiths. He burst out through the stooped crevice into the crumbled temple with a knife in each hand and a ferocious snarl on his gaunt face.
Skidding down a tailing of rubble and broken brick, he slashed at the hungry wraiths that swarmed over him, shouting in the dark voice of his rage, "Reece Morgan!"
Think of a New God
Reece rose up and up along the convoluted wall of his brain. Bright bubbles dazzled sight, and underwater singing wobbled on all sides. Huge and pulsing pain occupied him. Adrift in fetal buoyancy, he rolled, rising, turning in his other-body, eyes open and seeing through the brilliant, silver paisleys of air smoke another reality.
The room had a warped look. Yet, it was a room that he saw, a chamber of white walls hewn from limestone, with coral shapes bulging from ceiling and floor. And scattered throughout this ghostly vault, babies.
No—he thought, as thinking began again in him. These were not babies he saw but dolls, bald, warp-limbed dolls. Scurfy and clotted with blood-brown crust, hundreds of them lay sprawled among the coral bulges and knobs of the white room.
Goblins! He recognized from what he had seen in an amulet Jyoti had shown him. Then there had been just a few of them. Here, in this vision, scores of naked, swollen-headed goblins cluttered a coraline gallery.
They possessed no large motion, yet he sensed they lived. Speckled eyelids twitched, squat limbs budged. They slept, dream bound, basking in mauve light that filtered through holes in the dome of the salt-caked ceiling. They were dreaming of him—willing him to think of a new god...
His vision pulled sideways, retracting from the assembly of goblins, and he observed that the white room formed a crater, a coral grotto capped by mineral leachings that had gathered in a chalk mass among tangled trees. All around, the viscera of fallen dragons trembled with squirming swarms of worms and minute carrion eaters. Disemboweled dragon hulks reared upon the shoals. Their upturned ribs resembled the palings of storm-broken ships.
Reece broke the surface, and air burned its way into his lungs, inspiring hurtful awareness and forcing him to his senses. He thrashed in the murky water, spewing briny syrup from mouth and nostrils.
He groped to a rock shelf and pulled himself naked from the pool that had received him from his shucked beastmarks. Hand to forehead, he felt for the blade that had pierced him and felt no wound. Ripcat had absorbed the full force of the deathblow and had died for him.
Gasping for breath, he remembered yet another dying for him—Esre shoving him aside and taking through her neck the assassin's dagger meant for him. He lurched about, looking for her body on the slope of upended rock slabs.
Black blood stained a ledge in the planet shine let down from the gaping hole above. Esre's body had departed, lifted into the night sky by the same tide that had elevated him unconscious from the depths of the pool.
Rendered senseless by the blow that had broken his beastmarks, he had been sustained underwater by a caul of Charm. Sticky remnants of it peeled away in cool wisps fragrant of kelp and brine, and now the parasitical wraiths came flying toward its promise of body heat. Their lusting moans trembled around him, and he swayed upright and began climbing the heaped slabs.
Like hornet stings, the wraiths stabbed him with their sharp mouths. Their death odor shrouded him, and he fell to his knees, gagging. "Get off me!"
He writhed, swatting the air with both arms. The clamor of their wailing hurt his ears, and he leaped to his bare feet and hurried upward. Blood trickling from a dozen puncture wounds, he scrambled to the crest of the rock pile. Brown auras of ghostly shapes surrounded him.
Into the night air, the wraiths dared not pursue. The nocturnal tide surged strong enough there to whisk their nearly insubstantial bodies to the Gulf. Reece himself felt lighter of foot at the crumbly brink of the collapsed wall that plunged behind him into drafty darkness. He bounded over mud and mats of creepers and vines.
With the wraiths wholly behind him, he slowed and proceeded warily. He did not want to fall into another sinkhole, and he strained all his senses to find his way out of the Cloths of Heaven. Odors of swamp decay relented to a tang of salt in one direction, and he moved that way, listening to the traffic of nocturnal creatures among rock piles and the tumultuous encroachments of the jungle.
Ahead, a plaza descended in broad stone steps to where a wide expanse of water and sky shared a common body: Bright air heavy with planets and comet fumes stood doubled in the still water. A raft of logs had beached on a mud bank where a traveler had abandoned it long enough for ivy to scrawl its bow.
Reece did not hesitate to shove the raft free of the mud and its ivy moorings and set himself adrift. The current drew him away from the shore of overgrown spires and domes, and soon the Cloths of Heaven disappeared completely in the jungle.
For a while, he paddled with his hands, urging the raft farther into the night—until he spied a slithering movement on the slick water. Then, he pulled himself to the middle of the wet raft, where water seeped between the tied logs, and let the current captain him.
At dawn, he passed the swamp angel. Its star-glint eyes glared at him from a mud-gobbed face veiled in seaweed hair, and its mossy wings stirred the air with the jungle's warm fetor. He remembered the day that the charmwrights had created this illusory figure to frighten plunderers away from the sunken Pyramid of Abominations, and he quailed to find himself naked and bereft of magic all these days later.
His life had come to nothing but evil. His arrival on Irth had ushered in Hu'dre Vra and the cacodemons. His return to the Dark Shore had emboldened Duppy Hob to raid heaven itself. And though both the Dark Lord and the devil worshipper had perished, their savagery made possible the rise of the goblins. Guilt wracked him for marooning Dobrick on the Dark Shore and abandoning Jyoti in a city as dust-crowned as Troy.
Watching the day rise in steam from the swamp waters and the ashen horizon run red, he remembered the vision he had seen when the nocturnal tide lifted him from the cave pool. He had confronted hundreds of sleeping goblins.
"Hundreds!" he said aloud to the bluing sky and its planetary shards. He wondered if that sight had been hallucinatory—or telepathic.
The Abiding Star rose, and its heat burned him. Seeking shelter from its fierce rays, he dared reach into the water and paddle himself toward the nearest reef isle. He drew close enough to recognize the timber ramparts of Blight Fen and slowed down. No one hailed him from the walls, and the frightful thought occurred to him that trolls had overrun the camp.
The front gate stood open, and the range of colorful tents woven of theriacal fabric remained unmolested. The islet stood empty. In one of the prismatic tents, Reece found sealed carafes of spring water from Mirdath and tins of dried fruits from Sharna-Bambara. In another tent, he discovered the wardrobes that Poch and Shai Malia had left behind when they deserted the atrocity museum.
He dressed himself in gardener's togs—sturdy viper-skin trousers, ankle-wrap boots, and a loose-fitting brown chemise over which he wore an amulet-harness fitted with power wands and starbursts of hex-gems.
Immediately, the Charm healed his bruises and lacerations. He strolled out onto the grounds, strong enough to visit the blackstone exhibit hall and its epoxy cacodemons, hoping for succor and maybe even guidance from them in his battle with the heirs of their evil.
This Dreaming Thing
Shai Malia and Poch sat watching TV in the Chamber of Presence, where in days past the brood had gathered to worship their forebears and celebrate the living glory of their most venerable dominion. Walls of black onyx with milk-white veins stood three times an ogre's height. Slender columns of red marmolite supported a vault roof of hammered gold with an ivory frieze carved to depict charmful asp-flowers, mucronate leaves, and ice-mint herbs, the foliage from which the first amulets had been fashioned at the beginning of talismanic times.
To cut th
e glare from the balcony, a tall screen had been unfolded, its sable surface woven ornamentally with star clusters. Jet draperies had been hung over the chestnut-red double doors so that light from without would not wash out the image on the TV screen when servants came and went. At either side of the divan, where the couple sat with their sneakered feet propped on ottomans, a short tripod of bronze bore a shallow basin of pink carnelian filled with heat-exploded kernels of grain from the Dark Shore—what Overy Scarn called popcorn.
Shai Malia initially had scorned the odd garb her husband had accepted from across the Gulf. But after trying on a pair of red canvas espadrilles and finding them comfortable, she shed her witch veils for stonewashed narrow leg denims and black turtleneck shirt. A lavender cloth headband held back her glistening black curls and exposed her face and the rapture with which she watched the flittering images on the screen.
A mesh net of sapphire hex-gems snared the speaker consoles at the sides of the TV, translating the voices of the screen figures to Irth dialects. By turns laughing and staring in mesmeric silence, the couple remained immobile on the divan. Servants in heraldic attire replenished the carnelian bowls of popcorn along with carafes of effervescent brown sugar water and wafers of an equally brown confection called chocolate.
"Where are you going?" Shai Malia asked when her husband stood up. "She's about to find out if her lover is blackmailing her father. There's going to be trouble."
"I've got bladder-bursting fullness." He took the remote from the arm of the divan and paused the cassette tape. "We've been sitting here for hours watching this dreaming thing. Don't you think we should look in on the dear ones?"
"You just want to see your sister." Shai Malia reached for the remote. "Let's find out how she takes the news about the blackmail, then you can visit the latrine."
"What will the dear ones do with Jyoti?"
"Whatever they do will be less harsh than the murderous intentions of Overy Scarn." Shai Malia tugged at Poch's arm. "Come on, give me the remote. I want to see what's going to happen. We can replay it when you get back."
"Fine." He handed her the control unit and strode toward the jet draperies. "I'll be back in a minute. And I'll see if we have any more of that disc bread with the red berry sauce and melted white curds—"
"Pizza," she reminded and added without taking her eyes from the screen, "and don't disturb the dear ones. Your sister is all right. Soon, she will see their grace as we do. Oh, and don't forget the caramel corn."
On the way back through the jasper columns that fronted the manor's redstone baths, Poch stopped short, confronted by a hefty figure among the pillars.
"Margrave—I must speak with you." Overy Scarn produced a palm-sized packet in crinkly clear wrap with an image of a dromedary printed upon it. "Cigarette?"
Poch stood, arms akimbo. "You're not supposed to be on this level of the manor, Overy."
"I spent a hefty fee to buy this access, margrave—please, do not deny me a moment of your time." She shook a thin white tube from the packet. "Would you like to try a cigarette? Come on—you must have seen them on TV."
Poch took the paper tube and placed it between his lips as he had seen demonstrated in the movies. When Overy Scarn lit it for him, he breathed in an acrid lungful of heat and immediately jetted vehement smoke through his nose, withholding a cough. "It's hot as Hellsgate!"
"Don't draw so deeply." She lit a cigarette for herself and puffed placidly. "You'll find it most soothing if done properly. Take the pack. I'm sure your wife would enjoy the experience."
"Why did you bribe your way past the sentinels?" Poch attempted a more tentative inhalation from the cigarette. "What do you want that you don't already have? Isn't Dig Dog satisfied with its profits from our jungle industries?"
"Most satisfied, margrave." She exhaled a languid stream of smoke. "I'm not here to discuss money. I want to know about the goblins."
"We've been spared the goblins." A dizzy flush of nicotine obliged Poch to lower the smoking tobacco away from his squinting face. "I've seen all the reports from the other dominions. The troll and ogre attacks have overrun all the farming communities. There will be famine. And if they come out of the Qaf and take Saxar, the talismanic industry itself will be crippled. These are terrible times, Overy. We must get the projectile weapons shipped to the other broods and quickly."
Overy Scarn exhaled a ring of blue smoke. "Have you not wondered why New Arwar, isolated and entirely vulnerable in the midst of Elvre's jungles, has been spared? We have endured not one troll attack or ogre raid. Why?"
“The blind god Chance favors us—for now."
"Perhaps." The trade agent flicked ash to the shiny resin floor. "But remember this—Dig Dog's resources are deep. It bought you your title. It bought me your sentinels so that I could share this smoke with you. It has even bought the exclusive trade rights to the Dark Shore. And look at you—I see you are glad of the sartorial manner my funds have purchased you." She gestured with the glowing tip of her cigarette at Poch's jeans and T-shirt.
"You have enormous funds, Overy," the young man acknowledged and breathed more smoke. "I am grateful for your help. But—well, you did try to kill my sister. That was unnecessary. You must keep your distance now. I know you meant well, in your misguided way."
"If you are grateful, then make your wife aware that I own New Arwar." She dropped the butt of her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. "Make her realize that I will not be relegated to the servant's quarters to await her commands. I may not be a Peer, but I have the resources to act as one—and to reveal to the other Peers of Irth what I may learn of the goblins and why our beloved city has remained unscathed."
The Waters of Fire
“Scarn knows about the dear ones,” Poch moaned to his wife upon his return to the Chamber of Presence. "She calls them goblins!"
"Hm?" She waved him to his place on the divan beside her. "She knew her father was being blackmailed—it was her idea!"
"Scarn has no father. She's an orphan from Zul..."
"Not Scarn! The TV." Shai Malia jutted her chin toward the colorful screen. "Look—she's going to run away with his second wife. They're lesbians and planned her father's downfall together."
Poch seized the remote and shut off the TV. "Shai—Overy Scarn accosted me outside the baths. She is aware that we are sheltering the dear ones."
She pulled her legs off the ottoman and sat up, rigid with indignation. "What is Scarn doing on this floor anyway? I told her she was to keep to her quarters."
"She made it clear that she will not take commands from us." Poch placed a sneakered foot on the divan and leaned over his knee, staring at his wife with wide-eyed alarm. "She says she owns New Arwar—and I do not dispute that at all. Dig Dog's funds have bought us everything. But she knows about our dear ones!"
"Do you think they've summoned her?"
"No, no, not at all—that's the problem!" Poch grimaced with worry. “I don't know how she did it, but she saw them and yet did not feel their grace. To her, our dear ones are goblins! I'm afraid for them, Shai."
"So long as she sees them as goblins, they are in jeopardy," Shai Malia agreed, clutching her husband's hand. "But our dear ones barely have enough strength to fight for a place in this world. Dare we ask them to use their magic to make Scarn see them for the exiled pixies that they really are? The illusions of this world are hard to break. They're straining now to make enough magic eggs to lift the spell of disgust from your sister. This could completely exhaust them!"
"If Overy reveals their presence here to the other Peers, they will be exposed!" Poch nearly wailed. "We must give them more hex-gems and ask them to clear Scarn's mind."
"It doesn't matter how many gems we give them, Poch, they can only use so much Charm at a time. We could hurt them if we ask more." Shai Malia stood up, outraged. "All because Scarn has intruded on us."
"Let's go to the pixies now and warn them." He took his wife's hand, and they hurriedly exited the chamb
er.
*
Within the goblin's suite, Jyoti lay among woven gossamers and creamy masses of throbbing larval eggs. Each egg comprised a packet of precise and complex chemical instructions exuded from the goblins' bodies. When the eggs matured, they ruptured, releasing mesmeric fumes that delivered commands to whoever breathed them. The orders were always the same—fidelity to the dear ones, care for the pixies from the higher world, and an intense vivacity of love for the cheesy ordure of the little creatures, a passionate hypnosis that made the fulsome seepings smell like attar of roses.
Jyoti lay paralyzed by the goblin's telepathy. Bereft of her amulets, devoid of Charm's protection, she lay wholly under the spell of the powerful minds from a hotter order of being.
The baby bodies crawled over her, hex-gems in their wee hands, and from their glossy bodies fibrous excrement oozed in nacreous sheets that stuck to her hair, face, limbs. Wrapped in a chrysalis, she felt herself gradually lifted up as the filaments tightened under the slow-turning bodies of the goblins. They rolled around their stubby torsos the threads attached to her casing, and she inched upright.
Thick, white deposits of larval thoughts pulsed like living pearls in the web around her. Soon, they would burst. The chemicals in them would invade her brain and influence the cortical patterning of her neurons, physically persuading her to their passion.
Helpless, she stared out from her immobilized body. The putrid stench of the crawling bodies at her feet burned her sinuses and scalded her throat. She wanted to retch. Nausea swept through her in waves, but her body could not convulse to release the sickening sensation.
Octoberland (The Dominions of Irth Book 3) Page 17
