Weird Tales, Volume 51

by Ann VanderMeer

  He laughed with little amusement and they were silent for a while. Then she said:

  “Why do you wear those lenses?”

  The Warped Lenses. She had to ask. He said nothing.

  “Can I take them off?” She raised her hands.

  “No.” He span his head away from her. “I have a problem with my eyes.”

  The head-whore, who was a professional, quickly changed the subject:

  “You think it's possible?”

  “What?” He frowned.

  “To forget.”

  “There are ways and means.”

  She sank beside him, leaning an arm on the edge of the bath. “You really have that kind of control over your own mind?”

  He looked at her.

  “No,” he said. “Why else would I be here?”

  21, 24 and 39 were already intent on investigating the stranger's presence. It was, for them, a routine measure. But when they heard of the extent of the stranger's capacity for physical and mental stimulation, they began to get suspicious and, on discovering his identity, were aroused by the prospect of violent action.

  It had been a while since they'd received their Father's edict and, dutifully, they had turned their attentions to the City of Indulgences, which was often a favourite hideaway for Meta-Warriors capable of controlling their random leaps. BleakWarrior had no control over his; and the Sons of Brawl had no control over theirs either. They could, however, depend on their Father's guidance, whereas BleakWarrior was bereft of any mastery of self-navigation and, to this extent, was likely to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Which is where he was now; and 21, 24 and 39 were about to make him pay for his shortcomings.

  Outside the door of BleakWarrior's room (where he was shacked up with some psycho-slut parasite getting kicks out of some heart-to-heart colloquy), the Sons of Brawl were preparing themselves for an abduction, regrettably with some restraint. 21 was jittery with eagerness, his cleaver in his hand wavering with as much excitement as he was. 24, wielding a hatchet, was very calm, which only emphasised his talent for hate. 39 was rubbing the tip of his poniard like it was some kind of phallic totem destined to bring him additional vitality.

  But when they burst into the room, they saw nothing of the woman; and BleakWarrior was now poised at the window, ready for a random leap. The stipple bath stood between them and steamed; and, as 21, 24 and 39 made their move (which they knew was in vain), BleakWarrior, not looking at them, said:

  “Better to forget.”

  And he threw himself through the window, which exploded in a mass of splintered muntins and shivered glass, and flung himself free from the grip of his would-be captors.

  21, 24 and 39 stood still and gaped, too angry even to move. Then a bubbling noise arrested their attentions and, looking down at the bath, they saw a head, gasping for air, emerge from the steaming ooze of stipple juice.

  The whore who does not hire her body but hires her mind gazed up at them. The Sons of Brawl rounded on her and, with their weapons raised, vented their fury on her delicate flesh, afterwards pausing to savour the brew of stipple juice mixed with female blood, which, they agreed, was a highly satisfying remedy for failure.

  Meta-Warriors can only die through acts of violence (including death by drowning, poison and fire) and are physically immune to the linear disorders of disease and starvation. They are also immune to death in cases of violent impacts sustained through random leaps, when the fall, from a linear point of view, has to be high enough to be fatal. In which case, Meta-Warriors simply fall through, rather than onto, whatever they hit, whereby the effect is like jumping into water, except that it is the body that becomes like a liquid, sifting quickly through the hard matter of the targeted surface and reforming itself as an organic whole on the other side of the transition.

  There are some who have learnt to navigate their way through what they refer to as the Intersecting Differentials of the matter through which they are capable of travelling (often called IDs, which state that the chaos contained by the material order of the universe also contains inversions of that principle). But, generally, the destination (or node) is entirely random—hence, the name: random leap.

  —from The Private Testimony of Achlana Promff, Priestess of the Church of Nechmeniah

  Bleakwarrior shot up through terrain that felt like a pavement. A few moments of disorientation, then . . . Nemeden, the City of Riches. He was beside the River Tho and could see the High Street squirming with dandified tourists, merchants, sooth sayers, acrobatic troupes, fortune tellers and affluent street vendors. Last time he was here, he'd stayed in a luxurious tavern that was famous for its wine selection and extravagant orgies. This time, it might be better to get out of the city altogether and seek refuge in some anonymous ancient village in the hills.

  Money, however, was a major problem; and this is where the tourists came in.

  BleakWarrior slid unseen into a labyrinth of decaying streets where idling visitors wondered aimlessly—just right for being dragged into some deserted alley and beaten up for every sovereign they had in their possession.

  In a private salon at the Palace of Layman Sohk, 21, 24 and 39 conspired.

  “What shall we tell Father?” asked 21, wringing his hands like some kind of aristocratic ponce with too many gambling debts.

  “The truth,” said 24, ever the pragmatist.

  39 agreed: “Our failure to catch the rat is only temporary. The sooner we tell Father, the more chance he'll have of tracing the location.”

  “Let's do it now,” said 21.

  “Consider it done!”

  The voice came shafting through their veins like liquid ice and into their ears like a sudden hoarfrost.

  “Father!” they cried, falling to their knees with fear and awe in equal measure.

  “Little worthy fragments of myself, your various murdered mothers would be proud. Fear not my wrath when accomplishments are forthcoming. Though they be done by half, they are halfway to being whole; and, for this, I am pleased. Go you, then, to the highest point of your current place of habitation and cast yourself from its prodigious height. Empty your minds of all things and let a Father's guidance direct you to your goal. In the aftermath of your good work, all has been accounted for: sons 8 and 47 await your arrival with the obedience of good brothers. Go, now, and bring me the rival whose roasted bones will enthuse my grief.”

  They did as they were told and, within a matter of hours, had rendezvoused with 8 and 47 who, in the meantime, had been tracking BleakWarrior who, in the meantime, too, had been well aware that he was being tracked.

  Nailer of Souls was face to face with a Meta-Warrior of growing renown called Be My Enemy. She was taunting him with verbal abuse that had about as much effect on him as flecks of dust against the void.

  “Your ugliness resembles the facial contortions of a hog at the slaughterhouse,” she spat. “You have the elegance of a bat with its ears removed. If I were forced to love you I would cut out my heart and feed it to the dogs to please me better. Tell me, Nailer, do you sleep in the sewers of the linear folk? Why else would your robes stink so forcibly? I would likely vomit if it weren't for the fact that you disgust me so much.”

  Finally, she leapt, spider-like, towards him, her flails raised, one in each hand, ready to slam with precision into his temples. It was her favourite move against Meta-Warriors with big reputations. She liked symbolism, which was the basis of the reputation she was trying to build now.

  But Nailer of Souls responded as if he was made of air rather than flesh. His club, spiked with a single nail, swung up in an arc and impaled itself in the underside of her chin.

  It was the best piece of symbolism Be My Enemy had ever seen.

  She had failed, having counted on speed. Nailer of Souls had counted on the will to be faster. Her tongue had been pinned to the roof of her mouth; her teeth had been shattered; and, more to the point, her mouth had been shut. When the Nailer removed his
weapon, she fell limply to the ground, too stunned even to whimper.

  Nailer of Souls bent over her and, reaching into her body, dragged her soul from its containment of flesh, proceeding to devour it in a series of gulps that resembled a gannet scoffing a speared fish. Be My Enemy's belated scream was of untold desperation compared to the physical pain she'd received from the force of the blow.

  As Nailer of Souls stood enjoying the moment of resuscitation, he suddenly caught a whiff of some ghastly concentration of bitter and twisted life essences, against which the soul of Be My Enemy had smelt positively sweet. He raised his head at an angle and sniffed, filling his lungs with definite traces of putrescent anima. And there was one among them, too, full of agonies too deep to conceive, even more infested with rot than the others.

  Drooling at the mouth, Nailer of Souls walked to the cliff edge of the hill upon which he had slain Be My Enemy, and leapt. He followed the stench through a maze of IDs, which led him, in the end, to a place he disliked more than most.

  Nemeden.

  He had emerged on the outskirts of the city, and the smell was coming from well within its intricate clusters of marble domes and minarets.

  But it wouldn't take him long to get there, not even by linear means.

  The free traders of Interest spoke of a highly unusual spree of violence which had resulted in the deaths of two visitors to the city and the serious injury of six others. Nemeden had never known anything like it. Among the victims were men and women of all ages, beaten and robbed within a space of four hours during an average market-day afternoon.

  The killings were to some extent regrettable because they tended to attract attention in linear societies where law enforcement was more advanced, but they were necessary due to the dangers of being recognised (two of his targets had caught a glimpse of the Lenses, while the others had been more efficiently dealt with). They had served their purpose, however; and BleakWarrior now had the means for financing his stay in a private residence of considerable luxury.

  One useful effect of the killings was—precisely—to ensure that the City Arbiters were especially vigilant, which meant that the Sons of Brawl, much against their habitual tendency, would be forced to tread carefully in mounting their attack. It was in the interests of Meta-Warriors to keep a low profile in places like this—places where they'd be regarded and pursued as freaks rather than embodiments of Nature. There were already one or two linear humans or groups who'd made certain discoveries about the presence of “unusual visitants”, but who were luckily too wary of the repercussions (the accusations of craziness or eccentricity) to be profligate about voicing opinions of the facts. Because of that, they (some of them known personally to Meta-Warriors) had determined to take a more secretive course in widening their investigations, tending to form clandestine academic factions or mysterious sects reported to be engaged in queer religious practices.

  BleakWarrior knew one of them himself—a priestess from the Church of Nechmeniah—who had gained his confidence and, on one occasion, had even helped him. But Achlana Promff couldn't help him now; not now that there were five of the Bastard Brood on his tail. There was nothing for him but to knuckle down and face up to the fight. The Sons of Brawl were hardly versed in the arts of diplomacy: but, then again, neither was he.

  In the preliminary stage of his existence, BleakWarrior wanders over a vast and vacant territory of desolate hills and staggered peaks, where granite cresses overhang the marshy fens and discoloured summits elapse into long ridges of twisted rock. Storms rage and abate over a dreary terrain where rain ravages the foremost heights and sinks to a heavy pelt in the lower braes. No living creature, warm- or cold-blooded, could withstand the conflagration of raw conditions, that to the mind and body bring dreadful hardships, without resorting to a savagery that rivals the hostilities born against it. And, for this reason, BleakWarrior is wild; and wilder still because of the all-too-seeing sight—the penetrating gaze of the Lightning Vision—that enables him to see the supernatural aspect of the natural world, where the metaphysical hues of physical reality are as clear to him as corporeal objects.

  It is the world outside of linear time, where an eternal stupor of elemental forces manifest themselves as distorted beasts that war without pause or as feasting deities too beautiful or strange to gaze upon. Ghosts and denizens populate his vision with terrors and splendours; celestial figures dance naked over the glowing heaths: and, for all his sense of fear and wonder, BleakWarrior cannot conceive of them without going mad.

  Eons have passed, and BleakWarrior is drawn from the world of excessive marvels by the ululations of a harp that trails on the wind like the residue of sorrow. It is the music of the Bard who, when approached, does not open his lips to speak, but on his harp invokes the utterance of words:

  “One who wanders, from your madness now afforded some relief, the timbre of my strings has reduced your visionary convulsions to a material calm. My bardic offerings have delivered you from your impressions of lunacy. Come sit by the blaze of my hearth and slake your thirst on the draughts my naiads bring.”

  BleakWarrior sits and drinks. The Bard affixes the Warped Lenses.

  “Your restricted madness compels you to a mastery of your senses, which is all the more ferocious for its underlying dereliction. This, your weakness, now your strength, to enemies will convey their bodily ruin; and to you will bring your dedication to their doom.”

  It was time. The freshness of the morning before sunrise would keep his instincts keen. The streets, by and large, were deserted. East of the market square lay a clutter of alleys and arcades that would provide a sufficient territory for secluded combat.

  He didn't have to search the shadowed nooks to know that the Sons of Brawl were following his progress through the maze of ancient conurbation. And as he rounded the bend of a long and empty street, crammed to the heights with intersecting layers of Fiddithian and Mharothic architecture, they were there, five of them, waiting for him with weapons poised.

  BleakWarrior approached and made a ritualistic motion that was his personal prelude to battle. Finally, he drew his Weapon of Choice, which flew from its sheath with an ominous ring of honed steel. The Dirk.

  And holding it clasped in both hands, with his legs apart and arms outstretched before him, BleakWarrior bade the Bastard offspring do their worst.

  “Nay, BleakWarrior,” declared 24. “You will receive a good beating at our hands, but you will live to suffer much greater torments at the hands of our illustrious patron.”

  “Best lay down the Dirk,” added 39, “which will soon be ours by virtue of our victory. Lord Brawl awaits your company with anguishes contrived at your expense.”

  BleakWarrior's frown only deepened and the ripple of his brow increased.

  “Waste not your words on speculative discourses,” he said, “which have no root in the decisive consequences of action. The Dirk and I have other plans concerning the distribution of pain between us.”

  But as BleakWarrior prepared himself for an onslaught, he saw behind the Sons of Brawl a figure glide with ethereal swiftness out of the gloom. Sensing an untoward presence, the Sons of Brawl turned to look; and their faces, suddenly, bore the expression of their shattered bravado.

  “Nailer of Souls!” gasped 21.

  And a long silence passed between them; and Nailer of Souls was almost within striking distance when 24 took courage and said:

  “There stands a confluence of miseries no duty to our Father can allow us to deny. Good brothers, take heart. We have pursued a rat and discovered a Mastodon. Think of our Father's joy when such a prize falls wrapped in blood into his lap. Cripple him but do not kill!”

  The instruction given, the Sons of Brawl pounced on their prey, but the match was one of saplings to a hurricane. Nailer of Souls went about his business with chilling elegance, stealing among them with ease and with an exactness in every parry and stroke that struck asunder the Bastard host.

  Yet the Bastards w
ere no novices. Their adroit ferocity allowed them to avoid the more precipitous blows of their adversary. Desperation, too, played its part. Empowered to bravery through the reflexive impetus of sheer panic, 21 embarked on a rolling manoeuvre that enabled him to clip the calf of Nailer of Souls with his jagged-edged cleaver. The Nailer lost his balance by an inch or two—not much. But it was enough to rouse the Bastards to a less evasive approach in coping with the Nailer's deftness.

  BleakWarrior, meanwhile, saw that the time was ripe for his discreet withdrawal from the melee. There were no obediences to codes of honour in the world of universal strife. Far better to let Nailer of Souls indulge his hunger for souls composed of cosmic filth, for he was not to be challenged when newly revived by their nutritious boons.

  But a rational acceptance of the risks involved was not a thing to motivate BleakWarrior; nor was it courage that determined his actions: it was madness that defined him, and it ran in his veins with unstoppable motion like a river in spate.

  21 was the first to fall. BleakWarrior slit open the back of his neck and felled him like a sacrificial ox. 39 came next. BleakWarrior planted the Dirk in the small of his back, causing him to crumple like a burning leaf.

  The confusion caused by his appearance played into the hands of Nailer of Souls, who promptly smacked the jaw of 47 with the butt of his club and sent him spinning. Number 8 made the mistake of seeing this as an opportunity to make a move. He swung his studded cosh towards the Nailer's upper body with all the force he could muster. But the Nailer dropped himself to his knees and lowered his head—the cosh passed over him—then sprang to his feet and delivered an almighty thwack into number 8's groin.

  8 went up, then down and didn't rise. The Bastard's candle had been snuffed.

  BleakWarrior, meanwhile, was busying himself with 47, whose jawbone had been unhinged like a piece of machinery. It seemed appropriate to BleakWarrior that he should tear it off completely from the Bastard's face. So he took a grip of 47's chin and wrenched it sideways with all his strength. A few vicious twists accomplished the deed, and it was good to hear the Bastard squeal like a puppy roasting on a spit.