Mists of Everness (The War of the Dreaming)

by Wright, John C.

He saw a black figure leaning out from the right rear passenger’s compartment of the armored limousine, one hand holding a long, narrow weapon. No features could be glimpsed of the mysterious figure. His cloak and hood and gas mask, his sleeve, the weapon he held, and the vehicle were all the same dull hue of nonreflective black, so that all the shadows blended into one inky mass. Up from his shoulder, the tail of his cape streamed back from the window, slithering and flapping.

  A red laser light shined from the weapon.

  Van Dam turned his head. He saw the tiny red spot reflected off the rear window next to him. He turned his head farther. The driver was staring in horror at the tiny red dot gleaming on his hand where it clutched the wheel.

  There was a whispering hiss. The rear window exploded into powder. The driver’s hand opened up into jags of bleeding bone and torn flesh.

  The air bag in front of Van Dam inflated just as the sedan began to roll.

  Groggy, half conscious, Van Dam saw a tall figure step from the rear of the armored limosine, pause to don a wide-brimmed black hat, and move toward him, silent as a shadow.

  His vision went black. Vaguely, he felt strong hands pull him from the wreckage. He felt the touch of a stethoscope on his neck and chest, then fingers touching his wrist, feeling for a pulse. The cool bite of a needle touched his arm. Then his hands were twisted behind his back and cold handcuffs circled his wrists with a ratcheting click.

  Whatever he had been injected with brought him back awake. Van Dam blinked the haze out of his eyes. The only light came from the one unbroken headlamp of the sedan, pointing toward the ground. The driver lay, one hand bandaged, moving on the pavement next to him, also chained.

  A man dressed from head to toe in black, hidden in a voluminous black cape, face shadowed by a wide-brimmed black hat, was hunched over the white box Van Dam had been carrying. The magnetic lock had been opened, and tiny, luminescent readouts and status lights glistened like fireflies. The casing itself had been dismantled, and the interior computer circuits were exposed.

  The black figure held some kind of instrument, and wires ran from it to the opened inner workings of the white box. The mysterious fire-opal he wore on one black-gloved hand glittered and flashed hypnotically as he typed on the keyboard, first of the instrument he carried, then on the keypad of the white box.

  Wentworth’s voice rang out from the gloom beyond the sedan’s headlamp. “Pendrake! You’ll never get away with this! You should have joined us when you had the chance!”

  A strong, calm voice, chilling and pitiless, issued softly from the shadows beneath the black hat. “There is an order to the universe, gentlemen. Azrael’s curse can delay, but not deflect, the terrible consequences of his acts: the retribution for his wrong seeks him. For men, justice is dealt out by the hand of the law. For darker things the law cannot see or reach, there is a darker vengeance.

  “I have a secret place where those I wish to examine are taken. There, under hypnosis, they testify in my court with exact precision. From that court there is no appeal. But I do not take suspects there who are still within the reach of human laws, nor may I supersede that law’s authority, while that law still is free to act. But be warned! For in that secret place I keep accurate files of those destined to be brought before me; and your file is thick indeed, the record of your crimes long and black.

  “Van Dam!” came the pitiless voice. “I know you are awake. Heed the warning I gave your master. It may not be too late to repent, and, if you cooperate now in the undoing of some part of your crimes, I may be lenient when your time comes. Tell me the access codes.”

  Wentworth shouted, “He’ll never talk!”

  Without hesitating, in a loud and clear voice, Van Dam recited the string of numbers.

  “Very good!” said the voice. He raised a glove toward the face hidden beneath the hat brim, and spoke into his fist: “Burbank! Reconfigure your instruments to this channel! Redirect the warhead to the longitude and latitude my wife has given you.”

  A black-gloved hand reached out from the cloak to pick up the briefcase Wentworth had been guarding. “And this I impound as evidence; to return to Galen Waylock what was stolen from him. I have sent for an ambulance from the nearest hospital; they should arrive after they are done with the first motorcyclist. You will not see me again, Van Dam. This does not imply I shall not see you. Be warned!”

  With a whispering rustle of cape, the mysterious figure, the briefcase, and the white box were gone.

  12

  The Salvation of Lemuel

  I

  He had passed beyond agony into blackest despair. He had forgotten his own name. The music that poured from the walls spun his soul in a terrible rapture, a music driving his thoughts, compelling beyond all compelling beauties, horrid beyond all nightmares, and the dark majesty of the choir quenched his spirit.

  It was the music of angelic hosts, but fallen angels; they gave life to songs composed of genius, but genius turned to themes of fear.

  He hung suspended in the middle of a flooded cell, pinned by four chains that racked his four limbs. The black and freezing water long ago had choked him, but when his lungs had ceased, he had failed to die. When his heart grew cold and still within his chest, again, he failed to die.

  At times, the music swelled, and he forgot how much he longed for death, for the haunting lovely anguish of the songs would not allow him to recall what death was or to imagine escape from agony.

  And when the choir fell away to allow a lone soprano’s high, clear voice to soar in paeans praising pain, then he recalled the grave, and how he longed for it; and he could not tell if it were deeper torment to remember, or deeper torment to forget.

  At other times, ringing melodies wove through the choir of fear, to allow him to recollect the beauty of a snowy night in starlight, or the cold glint of the Moon above the desert, the lonely notes of nightingales lost in frozen forests, or the smile of a dreaming maiden, her face pure and pale, lying quiet in a velvet coffin, withered lilies on her breast.

  These images would recollect to him that once he had possessed the gift of sight before he had been plunged in blindness so profound that all images of light within his memory went dark.

  And this was torment worse, for as the music swelled again, harmonies ringing with evil glory would grow to drown the memories in themes of black despair. For the gentle counterpoints were there only to increase his pain, to remind him of his loss, and to confirm that loss to be eternal.

  Once or twice a golden voice, deep, haunting, pure, and kingly, rose above the choir of darkness, weaving music into beauty beyond all words. And that voice would recall his one best-loved memory.

  This one memory he had, cherished above all others, he loved as a drenched man in a freezing wasteland might love the single failing spark hesitating on the tinder of his hoped-for fire that might save him. He sought to save this one dim memory, as a freezing man might gently blow upon his spark, still hoping for fire, long after his hands and feet had gone numb and black with frostbite.

  The faint, happy memory was of a face and form more magnificent, more filled with glory, that the human eyes could tolerate. It was a kingly face, noble, wise, serene, and pure, and starlight was in his eyes. It was like the face of an angel, gray-eyed and dark haired, with a single diamond of purest fire on his brow. This countenance was without weakness or fear, a face of haunting aspect, like one bright star seen above an ice-crowned mountain, remote from all the dirtiness and pathetic frailty of man.

  When the memory of that perfect face came clearer, he would cherish it secretly in his heart, hoping his captors could not reach this inmost, hidden treasure of his mind. Outwardly, he tried to hide his one last happiness by filling the surface of his mind with thoughts of terror and hopelessness, so as not to give himself away by any show of joy. For he feared the immortals that had him could see his thoughts, and he rejoiced when he deceived them.

  The image of that face was like a beacon, recalling
hope. For if such a perfect creature as this could possibly exist, then not all the universe was an abattoir of meaningless suffering.

  But when the dark choir rose in praise and greeting of that golden voice then, only then, did he recall he had been deceived. Then he wept like a baby, remembering as well that he had been deceived this way many times before. He resolved not to forget, not to be so lightly taken in again; yet he recalled he, many times, had made such vain resolutions before.

  For the face was the face of Morningstar, the Emperor of Night, and Acheron’s Lord, of course; the glory of that face had been what blinded him, a sight more fair than men had faculties to see.

  Worst, and worst of all, was that he could not recall his crimes. The thought that he was innocent was pain to him, but he comforted himself with the hope that so brave and great and gracious a prince as Morningstar could not have condemned him without just cause. The fear that this hope would, too, prove vain, was also painful to him.

  The terror and fear and love he had for Morningstar was his only comfort in the midst of woe. Gladly he would have sacrificed his innocence, to make himself deserve his punishments, if only it would keep that noble, mighty being from any stain or slander.

  II

  His salvation, when it came, came with the swiftness of a tropic sunrise. In one moment the immortal choir’s song was choked away, made raucous and ridiculous, a cacophony, by a single clear and piercing song that utterly overwhelmed it. The choir’s voice turned to calls of anger, and then blew a trumpet-blast of war; and that blast was answered by the singing of a harp-string, or perhaps it was a bow.

  He forgot his love of Morningstar as quickly as a man forgets a bad dream on waking.

  Warmth came into him again, and he felt growth within him waking to life, like flowers opening their heads in a summer field. Not without pain, his heart began to beat again, and his lungs began again to fight the stinking filth and waters beneath which he was chained.

  That was when he remembered the look of sunlight on the hair of his wife, many years ago when they first were wed, and little Peter running in the grass in spring, playing in the sunshine, he recalled the look of daylight through the windows as he opened them, craning his neck to see a falcon overhead in swift, fierce flight. He recalled the triumph of a sunrise after cloudy nights, and the lusty call of roosters crowing for the dawn.

  The structure in which he was penned shook to its foundations, and he saw one part of the ceiling of his prison glowing red, surrounded by streams of bubbling steam. He remembered the look of light; his blindness had passed.

  A voice of perfect calmness called out: “Lemuel! I am come!”

  Only then did he recall his name, and choking, spitting water, he tried to call back. But he made only the feeblest noise, and fear embraced his heart, for he thought his rescuer could never hear him, and that he would be overlooked.

  But even the smallest cry for help had been enough. A hand of gold and white, with fingers taller than five birch trees, tore away the ceiling of the prison cell.

  A face larger than a sunrise looked within, crowned with laurel leaves and rays of living light. “My son!” called out the voice with joy, and a look of anger from those eyes shattered the chains into molten drops.

  Warm hands folded around Lemuel and lifted him from the pit where he had been. Here, there was air to breathe, as if the darkness and pressure of these deep waters had no power to come near the prince of light.

  Lemuel saw he stood upon a wide and desolate plain of blackest metal, which everywhere showed monuments like gravestones. And he realized that he stood upon an endless prison place, within pits on pits below, and doors welded shut, buried beneath the monuments, meant never to be opened evermore.

  In the wide gloom around the plain, rising out of sight into the blackness, cold and pressure of the waters overhead, loomed seven towers of adamantine metal, black as starlessness, rising bastion upon bastion, endlessly upward in proud, unconquerable strength. And Lemuel’s heart quailed to realize how far within the power of the enemy he was, and how remote from Heaven.

  For in the darkness all about them, and endlessly above, rank on rank and legion on legion, swam clouds of demon-kind, their beautiful and perfect faces terrible with wrath, their wide pinions, plumed with raven feathers, beating slowly in the watery gloom. On their heads were crowns of darkness; their breastplates gleamed with seven precious stones; their spears were tipped with hell-fire.

  The prince of light hugged Lemuel close by his side, beneath the warmth and comfort of his wide eagle-wings. “Cling close to me, my son, for both my hands must be free to pluck the bowstring. Let no fearful thought darken your mind, but be lighthearted, and turn your thoughts on high to Heaven, for we both must mingle our full strength to overcome what might oppose our ascent from this deep chasm.”

  The gates of the greatest tower now slammed wide with brazen clangor. Within were seven maidens, more lovely than any women of the Earth, save that their faces were deathly pale and their eyes were the eyes of vipers. When they paced with downcast eyes, modest lovely they seemed; but when a man might look them straight in the eye, they were horrors.

  The maidens came forward, holding torches that shed not light, but gloom; and where the shadows of those torches passed, the water glittered with black ice.

  Behind them—heralded by trumpets, drums, and cymbals—came a chariot drawn by writhing dragons; and the dragons belched mists of venom into the water. Upon the chariot-car, armored with gold and darkest adamantium, adorned with black opals, came one who bore a star of perfect light upon his brow. In one gauntlet the mighty Presence held a scepter whose head was a spike-studded orb of adamantium.

  “Gaze not at this one, my son,” said the prince of light, and lowered his great wings so that eagle-plumes were all around Lemuel like a warm and scented blanket. “Nor will your eyes sustain the full measure of my power as I put it forth this day.”

  Another voice spoke then, as perfect and as beautiful, or even more so, than the first, but bitterly cold, majestic, terrible, and inhuman. “Archangel Uriel! Why are you come to my dark empire, and by what law dare you to stray from that high empyrean circle to which divinity constrains you? Is high Helion stoopt now lowly thus that he is turned sneak-thief, and would hale away the small beasts I have penned within, my promised prey?”

  “I am also called Apollo, the Destroyer, as your coming grief will testify, great Morningstar, should you dare to trouble Heaven’s messenger!”

  “My eye pierces you, Apollo, and I see the monkey’s son who clings with trembling paw to your broad back. Return what is mine to me; you demean your high estate, and mine as well, to let the loathsome touch of such a creature befoul your back. Or, if me you defy, say by what law you dare oppose me in my place of power, far from the pathways of the Sun?”

  “I do defy, and ever will, the reign of darkness which follows you, sad Morningstar. Nor need I answer law for law to you, traitor to our order; for while you are greater than am I, I yet am a highest messenger of Celebradon and in service to a power whom only folly dares oppose.”

  “Smynthian! Well named are you, mouse-hearted mouse-god! To boast of servitude, glorying in unglory, upright in knee-service! With stealthy foot you trespass on my majesty, and that, when well you know my main strength has gone forth from this place, led by the Wizard’s will against the Court of Oberon. Yet that strength that fortune leaves suffices, for fortune is my slave. Now I raise my truncheon high, and signal for the onslaught. The seraphim of darkness shall rejoice this day the overthrow of proud Hyperion!”

  And at that, Morningstar uttered another word, which Lemuel’s ear would not allow him hear; and that word was darkness, which streamed from Morningstar’s mouth like the ink of an octopus, and quenched Apollo’s light.

  Apollo’s crown flickered and failed, and all was black as oblivion itself.

  “Do not despair, my child, but rise with me,” he softly said. Dark, but still warm, Apollo
rose, and Lemuel clutched to his back, strummed by the feathers of the eagle-wings as they flailed against the black and freezing waters.

  And now the thrones, dominations, cherubim, and potentates of Acheron drove in at Apollo, their spear-points glimmering like evil stars, and a paean-song of blackest victory rose through the gloom.

  Apollo’s laughter and light song cut through their harmonies in clear, pure tones; and at the singing of his bowstring, the darkness shattered and fled. Apollo’s arrows each became a hundred arrows as they flew, a thousand, and ignited into golden rays, and Apollo sang, “Who thinks the stars can smother the approach of day? Even the morning star, at dawn, turns pale and dies away!”

  The angels of darkness fled, scattering before the reborn light, at first rosy, then bright and golden, that showered bounteously from Apollo’s crown.

  Below the dark grew blacker, and writhing smoke rose up between the towers of Acheron, which no arrows and no ray could pierce. Morningstar was coming, and the hiss of the dragons of his chariot shivered through the darkness as he came. Like frightened children flocking behind their mother, the Archangels of Acheron dove into the gloom and hid below their master, hiding behind his growing cape, their weapons glinting like embers. The cape was swollen like a thundercloud to cover the cowering host.

  Morningstar stretched his great wings wide, stirring black currents of cold waters from the deep, raising columns of silt and gloom before him as he rose up. Swift as death he came, the star of his crown gleaming like a beacon of deep hate, and a great majestic music followed him.

  He sang in a voice greater, deeper, and more pure than Apollo’s. “Petty victory if dawn must conquer night each day; for bloody dusk awaits to rape that briefest life away; we wait, we wait, once more to rise; for Morningstar is Evenstar as well, brightest lord of darkest hell; and Evenstar shall always drive the dying sunlight from the skies!”

  Something dark, cold, sharp, and black slashed heavily through the eagle-pinions in motion around Lemuel. It was the head of Morningstar’s scepter, a cut, black gem of perfect diamond. Lemuel’s hand was but inches from where it struck, and that near passage numbed his fingers merely with the brush of wind from the cursed weapon. He did not look directly at it and so was not blinded.