by A. J. Smith
Lanry had spent much time in Tiris when he was a younger man. The House of the Kind, as the Brown church was known, had been his first posting after he had donned his robes for the first time. Cardinal Cerro was the chief of his order, and a man for whom Lanry had the utmost respect. He also knew how to make the best fruit tea in Tor Funweir.
Once through the gate, he quickened his pace. Stone Town was quiet, with few people wandering the streets and few windows with their shutters open. The people of Tiris had endured almost as much as the people of Canarn, but they had much less to rebuild. He guessed that the common folk of the poor quarter would simply remain in their hovels and wait until times improved. It was the way of the destitute to remain patient during the hardest times. This plan was sound right up until the multitudes of fleeing citizens arrived.
He reached the Brown church and took another moment to gaze up at it. It was a simple building, only slightly more decorative than the adjacent houses, but it was one of the tallest buildings in the city, and its significance made it, for him at least, one of the most important. Its bottom level was squat and wide, allowing hundreds of parishioners to seek food and shelter when needed. Currently the cavernous lower level was packed to the dark wooden rafters with slumped men and women of Tiris. It had been decreed that the multitudes of homeless were to be housed for the duration of the crisis. How long the crisis would last had not been specified, but Lanry thought it an open-ended situation.
A young woman, no older than twenty, with a muddy face and frail hands, approached him and fell to her knees. ‘Will you bless me, Father?’
He placed his hand gently on her head. The poor girl looked exhausted and lost, and no doubt she was hungry. ‘Don’t kneel, Sister,’ he said. ‘I can bless you just as well when you’re standing.’
She looked up and hesitantly rose to her feet. ‘I’m hungry, Father,’ she murmured.
‘Then I will bless you with food,’ he replied, smiling warmly. ‘Come with me.’
He led her into the church, waving away the locals telling people that it was full. He couldn’t help everyone, but he could help the young girl get some food. Small acts of kindness in the midst of such suffering could be mighty indeed.
‘Please, a bowl of soup,’ he said to the plump man in a white apron, ladling out portions of steaming broth for the occupants of the church. ‘And would you make sure she has a place to wash and rest.’
‘As you say, Father,’ said the plump man, beckoning the young girl forward.
Lanry gave the girl a reassuring smile and left her to eagerly slurp a bowl of thick vegetable soup. He was stopped by townspeople several more times as he made his way to the nondescript vestry at the rear of the church. He blessed each of them with safety and full bellies, leaving a small wave of kindness in his wake.
‘You look tired, Brother,’ said a familiar voice. Cardinal Cerro of Darkwald emerged from his private sanctum. ‘Perhaps a pot of tea.’
They embraced, chuckling to each other about the state of the world and their individual struggles. Lanry was younger by ten years, but both were old men and their banter was tinged with complaints about inexplicable pains in their legs, arms, backs and heads.
‘Take the weight off, my dear Brother Lanry,’ said the cardinal, pointing to a comfy-looking armchair in the corner of his vestry. ‘Any demands on our time can wait until the water has boiled.’
Lanry sank into the plump cushions of the armchair and let out a contented sigh. The city of Ro Tiris was quieter than he’d ever known it, but the Brown church was busier than he’d ever seen it.
‘You crowned the king?’ he asked, imagining the advice he’d have given if he’d been at hand.
‘I did,’ replied Cerro. ‘I believe the One has chosen well. He has good counsel and good men, but I didn’t get the opportunity to make him a cup of tea.’
Lanry chuckled, taking a mug of sweet tea from his old friend. It was as good as tea could get, rich and warming with a smooth aftertaste that soothed the throat and stomach. ‘I don’t believe I’ve met young Alexander Tiris,’ he remarked, sipping at the deep mug of hot liquid. ‘But I hear he’s good at fighting. I imagine that’s rather important for a king in such times.’
Cerro took a seat opposite with his own mug of tea. ‘He’s distilled everything down into fighting. Everything that has happened; everything that has been won and lost – it all comes down to a bit of a scrap. He’s outnumbered and that has seemed to make him more determined to pick a fight.’
Lanry felt a slight tingle of warmth travel up his spine. ‘Have you met Fallon of Leith?’ he asked.
‘I have not,’ replied the cardinal, loading his wooden pipe with tobacco. ‘Red Knight. Good swordsman, from what I hear.’
‘Terribly nice young man,’ said Lanry. ‘Simple mindset, but determined in his way. He’s also the exemplar of the One.’
Cerro spat out a mouthful of tea in surprise and leant forward, coughing. He controlled himself and straightened, placing his mug of tea on a small table and rubbing his chest. He didn’t ask if Lanry was sure or what it could mean. Those of the Brown knew better than any other clerical order what the One God was capable of. They could also feel his dwindling power and the true depths of the current crisis.
‘It’s late in the day,’ observed Cerro. ‘Do we think he can make a difference?’
‘He’ll certainly try,’ replied Lanry. ‘If my old senses haven’t escaped me, I know Sir Fallon is a warrior the likes of which Tor Funweir has never known. The One has seen fit to reorder the world. The Knights of the Grey will be the last of the old and the first of the new.’
Cerro puffed on his pipe, grumbling in thought. ‘We should begin to plan for the future, my friend. The Purple, Red and Gold may resist, but we are of the Brown and mustn’t let pride cloak our better judgement.’
‘My better judgement keeps telling me the same things,’ replied Lanry. ‘That no number of Grey Knights or romantic ideals of victory can make a difference.’
‘I have not heard the One’s voice for weeks,’ said the cardinal. ‘Even when I crowned Alexander Tiris king of Tor Funweir. But I know that the Brown will have a place in the new order. My better judgement tells me that we are more important now than we have ever been.’
Lanry continued to sip his tea, though his thoughts turned to a world where the Ro had become a small nation of men, fighting to keep their freedom against a dead god and its followers.
‘My friend,’ said Lanry. ‘You once described us as the mortar that holds the Ro together.’
‘We are somewhat beyond soup kitchens, do you not think?’ replied the cardinal.
‘Perhaps. But if we must save the Ro from extinction, we should approach it as if we were saving a homeless man from starvation. With small acts of kindness.’
‘Thousands of fleeing folk are going to start arriving in Tiris very soon. Do we minister to them here? Knowing an army of Hounds will be at the gates within six months?’
PART 2
THE TWISTED TREE
THE TALE OF THE GORLAN
THE SPIDER MOTHERS were birthed before the Giants walked their paths of divinity. They were created from the void by Atlach-Nacha, an Old One who survived longer than any other. Through ages of deep time they endured, choosing followers and battles as their whim dictated.
They were priestesses and they were sentinels, tasked to endure beyond all the battles of the Long War.
When Rowanoco ascended and opened the way for gods of the earth, the Gorlan remained in the shadows, commanding those that crawl, until their mother was snared by Shub-Nillurath.
The Forest Giant needed sustenance as he clung to life, and he consumed Atlach-Nacha, using the energy of the Old One to sustain himself. Many Gorlan pledged to the Forest Giant, hoping to free their mother, but many more remained free, creating broods and enduring at the edges of the world.
As long as the Old One’s power remained, so would the spider mothers. But every feast
comes to an end, and all power fades.
PROLOGUE
THE GUARDIAN MISSED weather. In the void there was no wind, no rain, no warmth or cold. Everything was shimmering blue and neutral, flowing from one texture to the next, never rising too high or falling too low. It was possible, when concentrating, to discern landscape and life, but never for long. Above and all around was the void; below, through a tear, a sliver of rotten energy, was the real world, distant and mostly forgotten. The Guardian didn’t know how long he’d been there. He even doubted that his memories of weather were real. Was snow as he remembered it? Was cold truly cold?
You will stand on the threshold. You will guard the tear. You will judge those who seek to pass, whether into the void or into the world.
The words were all that mattered. The Guardian was given instructions by the great Fire Giant himself, and he would stay and he would stand – until the halls beyond were blowing as dust in the winds of the void. But nothing had ever tried to pass, either into the void or into the world.
Why not close the tear? Let me return to the fire halls.
Because the tear was made by a Giant... a Giant now felled. No other being can undo what he has done.
The Guardian never questioned the wisdom of the great Giant. He waited and he watched. He constructed a labyrinth, using his great wit and cunning to form walls and twisted corridors between him and the tear. He learned to read the movements of the tear, the rotten energy, flowing to the real world below, and in its texture he saw mortals dance and contort. One moment they lived, the next they were ash and mist, to be replaced by more dancing and contorting figures. Nameless beings, Gorlan, Jekkans, Volk, Dokkalfar – and finally men. Every once in eternity, a blink of the eye showed him rain or a cloudy sky. These visions were the closest to happiness he ever felt.
Once his name had been Kaa. Now he was the Guardian. Once he had flown through the umbral sky of the void on immense red wings. Now he crouched on a plinth, waiting. He felt neither tiredness nor hunger. He couldn’t remember boredom or anger. He merely waited – and he guarded the tear.
He wondered what the world was like. He knew the names and boundaries had changed, but the mountains and seas would remain. Once it was the Fire Lands. To the north, across the Hammer Sea, were the Stone Lands. What names did they have now? The Guardian didn’t know. Nor would he ever. Even when he glimpsed the mortal world, its beauty, chaos and terror, he never heard a thing. He never learned what Jekkans talk about, or what Dokkalfar named their realms. Men talked a lot, their lips moving almost constantly, but the Guardian never learned what drove them to such animation or distress.
***
The shade was confused. With no guidance and vague memories at best, it drifted through the void, following a sense of purpose that drew him along pathways and across forgotten realms. There was an exemplar somewhere, but where? It should have been easy. When the shade gained consciousness, its sense of right was absolute, as was its pull towards the exemplar. Now something blocked it. Some means of control that the shade could not penetrate. It felt a vague pull, directing it up, down, left and right, gliding across endless tides of void energy, searching for the exemplar. It was all the shade could do.
Then it stopped, snatching at fragments of its former life. It was hovering on a shimmering wave of green energy, lapping gently at the shade’s ethereal feet, as though it were standing in the wash of a mortal sea. The fragments came slowly, as awareness returns after a deep sleep. It remembered who it had been, the mortal of whom it was a memory. But the memories had not been lived and they gave the shade little guidance. He had been Dalian Thief Taker, greatest of the wind claws, but now... until he found the exemplar he was nothing. But still there was Jaa. The Fire Giant infused the shade with divine might, giving it purpose.
The shade trod on the air and a void path appeared. It shimmered through different tones of red and blue, always moving, never still. A few more footsteps and the path solidified, arcing away from him as a rainbow would cut a cloudy sky. The other paths appeared close, but to reach another would require luck or vast knowledge of the paths beyond the world. Each one led... somewhere. Powerful realms, forgotten halls, remnants of lost power or shattered divinity. And other things, things with neither names nor recognizable forms. Every scrap of belief went somewhere. Every god, spirit or urge that had ever been revered had a place in the void. The fire halls were here somewhere, but that was not the path the shade took. There was a new pull, one not of the mortal world.
Follow the flapping of wings, the smell of fire and smouldering rocks.
Was Jaa guiding its journey? Not to the exemplar; maybe to a way out of the void. The shade walked. It walked through epochs of might and majesty, fallen long since to dust. Huge, nameless spires of chaos whose inhabitants were gone. Fossilized tentacles, snaking into the umbral sky as corridors and halls of a dead civilization. The shade walked unseen. If the paths it trod had inhabitants, they were invisible... or perhaps they existed in the past or the future, too alien to be perceived.
Another footstep and the shade was walking on stone. The path became a tunnel. The sparkling blue of the void melted into cyclopean blocks of weathered granite and slate, pushed together by some craft unknown to mortal men.
Follow.
Openings and alcoves dotted the corridor, reaching into unlighted halls, too vast to truly comprehend. Shadows played in the air as wisps of darkness. They were glossy black, both sensual and terrible, but of no concern to the shade. It had arrived somewhere, stepped from the path and entered a hall – or a realm. The smell of ash and sulphur hung in the dusty air, and the distant sound of beating wings echoed softly through the passageway.
‘To wander blindly is to invite permanent blindness,’ said a gentle voice. ‘What manner of being would think to wander here? Whether blindly or with intent, no being has entered this realm in memory.’
‘I am the Shade of Dalian Thief Taker and I seek the exemplar of Jaa.’
The gentle voice let forth a thoughtful grunt, as an old man would think on a subject of importance. ‘Then you may approach. Keep to the path. Look not too long into the darkness for things dwell in the shadowy places of my realm.’
The shade reached a stone precipice, beyond which was an endless vista of constantly shifting rocky passages. It appeared to be a labyrinth of some kind, with corridors twisting and turning in chaotic patterns far below. If the labyrinth had an end or distant boundaries, they could not be seen from the precipice. It rolled over leagues, sprawling like a corpse city with only the dead to walk its paths.
‘What place is this?’ asked the shade.
‘It has no name. It has only a purpose.’ The gentle voice was resonant, coming from every angle the shade could perceive. Up, down, left, right, within and without.
‘Jaa showed the path to this place. Why?’
No answer. The shade could feel a presence nearby, but not an identity. Whoever spoke was infused with ancient divine power, though not hostile. To the contrary, the power, though immense, was welcoming – almost happy.
‘What are you?’ asked the shade.
Still no answer. The smell became more pungent and was joined by the earthy aroma of smouldering rocks. ‘Forgive me,’ said the voice, ‘I have not conversed for... I don’t believe I can finish that statement. The passage of time evades me, as does its meaning.’
‘Do you have form? Or are you merely a mind and a voice?’
Overhead, a gust of wind almost sent the shade to the rocky ground. It was intense downward pressure, produced by the sweep of huge wings. The pressure abated only when the smell became almost overwhelming. At the downward entrance to the sprawling labyrinth, a giant platform rose like a single mountain peak against a stark sky. The plinth was carved into images of crackling fires, dancing this way and that in forms of glory and terror. A shape distorted the air, revealing glimpses of red scales and a long tail. As the form became visible, the shade dropped to the ground, aver
ting its eyes from the enormous red dragon.
‘I was called Kaa,’ intoned the huge beast. ‘Now I am the Guardian.’
‘You’re a Fire Giant!’ exclaimed the shade.
‘I am, but why do you not look at me?’ asked the Guardian. ‘I am not your god. In your terms, Jaa was my father.’
The shade tentatively looked up. The dragon measured a hundred feet from its fiery snout to the tip of its barbed tail. Segmented spines lined its muscular back, each one a subtly different shade of red, playing off each other like a strange mosaic. It perched on two legs, wings gathered behind into a spiny crest. An aura of flame surrounded it, crackling from gaps between scales and tumbling from wide nostrils. Most alarming was its face. The being was a Fire Giant, of the same order as Jaa, but its face was warm, as if it greeted an old friend or welcomed a new acquaintance.
‘I know I appear intimidating,’ said the Guardian, ‘but I do not wish you to be afraid. I find that I crave discourse, and you are in need of my assistance.’
‘I have to find the exemplar,’ said the shade. ‘I must anchor myself to the lands of men. All else is smoke and shadow.’
The Guardian’s mouth opened wide and its huge, curved teeth parted. It could swallow a man whole, or bite him in two, but the shade did not feel under threat. The beast appeared to be laughing, its dark red tongue lolling over its teeth and its eyes shining, orbs of warm golden light. As the beast lowered itself to the plinth, it smiled – a subtle curve of the huge mouth, making it look almost feline. ‘Your conviction is... refreshing,’ said the Guardian, a guttural purr coming from the depths of its throat.
‘Why did Jaa lead me here?’ asked the shade.
A huge red tongue ran smoothly across the Guardian’s teeth, leaving a film of spittle – red and smouldering – to fall from his scaly lips. As the phlegm hit the stony ground, it bubbled and steamed. ‘The great Fire Giant led you to the tear. To the only true gap from the void to the realm of form.’
