by A. J. Smith
‘Alahan, get down here,’ shouted Tricken as he and Halla reached the bottom of the steps.
He took the last few steps three at a time, and joined them in Ulric’s Yard. The battlements above them were now swarming with men, but they were not on alert. They’d come to see something, answering a call from their mates to come and have a look at whatever it was outside the gate.
The cloud-man, Rexel Falling Cloud, hopped up the nearby steps and shoved men aside to get a look himself. He stood aghast for a moment, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping in an expression of amazement.
‘What in the fucking halls beyond,’ he muttered. ‘Get the gates open now.’ Halla’s captain had a thunderous voice, carrying far, with a note of aggressive authority.
The gate guards didn’t ask for clarification; they moved quickly in response to the order and no-one contradicted Falling Cloud. Alahan strode forward with Tricken to the front of the group as the huge, wooden doors were pulled inwards by a heavy chain mechanism.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Falling Cloud, returning to Halla’s side in Ulric’s Yard.
A white sliver appeared, then a white expanse as the gates revealed the immense plains of Summer Wolf. At the base of the wood, silhouetted against the crisp blue sky, crawled a figure. He was bloodied, cleaved and grunting, a mop of blackened hair sticking to and obscuring any recognizable features. But the huge man, growling like a beast and missing his right arm, was not what caused the alarm. Behind him, tightly grasped in his remaining hand, was a shimmering black creature. It was a cross between a limp, fleshy tree and a jet-black squid, with tentacles clustered together behind a thick body, tentacles that had been hacked to pieces by repeated axe blows.
‘Wulfrick!’ exclaimed Halla, rushing forward, ignoring the dead creature.
Alahan, like every man in Ulric’s Yard, couldn’t tear his eyes from the twisted tree. It was huge and monstrous, with a single, circular mouth dripping green ooze on to the cobblestones. Each tentacle left a film of sticky, black blood on the floor, trailing out of the gate and cutting across the snowy plains beyond. Wulfrick had dragged the creature from the Crystal Fork River to the gates of Tiergarten, on his knees, with a shattered leg and a missing arm.
The axe-master of Fredericksand suddenly stood up and roared to the sky. No words or meaning, just rage and pain. His eyes were black, though he was not in any kind of battle fervour Alahan had seen. He was covered in sickly patches of the creature’s blood, drying on his bare torso and coating his face and wounds. The stump of his arm was cracked and split as if some eldritch infection had taken hold of him, and his muscles pulsed with red-raw veins.
‘Get Crowe,’ muttered Alahan.
‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ replied Tricken, staring in disbelief at the dead creature and the roaring figure of Wulfrick.
CHAPTER 16
TYR NANON IN THE HALLS BEYOND THE WORLD
THE VISTA WAS covered in ruined stone of immense proportions. The blocks were dusty and broken, falling endlessly from breaches and large gaps, disappearing only to re-form. Each crumbling fragment of rock was larger than a mountain and further away than any earthly horizon. Beyond the ruin was a spire of black and shadow, barely visible against the shimmering blue sky of the void. Everything was vague and unreal, as if barely more than a memory. In the far distance, he imagined, there had once been other structures, perhaps towering over the spire. Now it was a desolate expanse of nothing. True nothing, far more barren than an earthly desert or the deepest ocean. Just the absence of form and substance, long turned to dust in the winds of beyond.
But the ruined wall and spire remained, a skeletal reminder that the Shadow Halls beyond the world could not be felled so easily. It had once been a great realm, a place where devotion flowed, turned into divine energy and returned to the world. Now it clung on to existence through the last spark of divine energy it possessed, the blood of Utha the Ghost.
As the albino cleric grew into manhood, his heritage had been all that kept the halls intact. He was unknowingly maintaining the one the Dokkalfar loved, their lost Shadow Giant god, as he followed the strict rules of Tor Funweir and walked the path of the Black. If only Nanon had met him when he was still a child; maybe more could have been done then, rather than at the end of the battle, when the final swords were being swung and the Long War prepared to claim more casualties and declare more victors. Was it too late for Utha to change anything? Was change even necessary? Or was vengeance all that remained?
‘Does it help to see it?’ asked Corvus.
‘I don’t know... I thought I should see it at least once.’
‘The blood and wisdom of your people built that hall. In long ages past.’
‘It’s not really so long,’ replied Nanon. ‘I have a new appreciation of time since I came here. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand years – it all seems so small, so short. When you see it in context.’
The raven cawed in his mind, singing a distant song of Brytag’s wit and wisdom. Every sound gave Nanon new insights into the raven god. It appeared that even Giants could be understood if he spent enough time with them, and Brytag wanted to be known. Nanon thought the World Raven desired friends, as if they kept him rooted in the lands of men.
‘You should try not to have context,’ said Corvus. ‘A true sense of perspective is a dangerous thing. Even you, Tyr Nanon, occupy such a tiny speck of reality as to be the definition of insignificant.’
‘So... what? Significance isn’t real?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. It is a delusion, and one that every creature is guilty of to one degree or another. If enough mortal beings hold the same delusion – such as significance – it becomes real... after a fashion.’
‘And you?’ asked Nanon. ‘What tiny corner of Brytag’s mind can comprehend a creature as tiny as me?’
‘The World Raven likes your kind.’
‘A god is capable of such a thing?’ he queried.
‘Brytag cares more than most,’ replied Corvus.
Nanon felt the raven’s boundless empathy, as if the god of luck and wisdom was the counterpoint to Rowanoco’s strength and bluster. Brytag’s personality was deeper than any mortal, more layered and textured than even the oldest Dokkalfar, but he was good-natured and caring. As the void paths faded and the gods of men snatched at empty threads of faith, it was the World Raven who fought back. Not the One, standing tall behind his clerics, sword in hand, blazing with righteous anger. Not Jaa, weaving fear into the minds of enemies and burning them to cinders. No! It was a humble raven, soaring from the shoulder of the Ice Giant to try to save the lands of men from Shub-Nillurath.
‘Perhaps it is time to return,’ said Nanon. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of the realms beyond.’
A sense of happy completeness flowed from Corvus, almost smug but far too warm to be negative. ‘I’m glad you have chosen to live and continue your fight.’
‘I sense you knew I would,’ he replied.
‘We hoped you would,’ said the raven. ‘You have much yet to do, many more people to care about. You are good-natured and that is rare in a warrior. Rarer still in a soldier of the Long War.’
The thought made Nanon sad. Why was it rare? Why did people not care about each other? He’d met so many mortal beings, so many friends and so many enemies, but he could count the truly good-natured on one hand. Rham Jas was an assassin, Glenwood was a criminal, Dalian was a mass murderer. They were his friends, but all were dark men, as capable of evil as they were of good. Even his own people were most often too proud and haughty to care about anything but themselves.
‘Perhaps Keisha,’ he muttered. ‘She was innocent. A hunter’s daughter made a slave. Used, manipulated and discarded. She’s always been a victim.’
‘Until now,’ offered Corvus.
‘Now she just has a Jekkan and its servitor to worry about,’ he replied, remembering the dire situation he’d left in the Fell.
He felt boister
ous humour from the raven. A kind of knowing aggression that made Nanon smile. It appeared that Brytag was not concerned by the Great Race of Jekka.
‘We were sent to help,’ said Corvus. ‘In saving your life we have taken you beyond. You will return infused with our energy – divine energy. The thing the Jekkans fear the most.’
‘Their power comes from the Old Ones,’ replied Nanon. ‘The Giants came later.’
‘But the Giants were creatures of the realm of form once, unlike the Old Ones. Rowanoco, Jaa, the One, Brytag, even Shub-Nillurath – their strength in your lands of men is far superior to the might of the Old Ones. Why do you think the Jekkans dwindled and died?’
It made sense, but Nanon was not schooled in such ancient lore. Perhaps Vithar Joror would know of such things, or have heard misty tales of the time before the Giants, when chaos ruled the realms of form.
‘I have always feared them,’ said Nanon, pausing as his head filled with memories. The Jekkans’ claws, their luxuriant whiskers and, most of all, their sibilant, blade-like voices, sharp enough to cut flesh and destroy thought. ‘The Dokkalfar were at war with them once, but we didn’t win. We just made them leave us alone. It wasn’t our might that saved us, it was the Jekkans’ capricious nature. I think they just got bored and moved on to tormenting something else. And that was when they were already in decline.’
Brytag knew much about the Jekkans. Nanon could feel a thousand unspoken comments and observations, many of which were scornful in the extreme, as if the World Raven thought them interlopers or aliens of some kind.
‘You can help me defeat it?’ he asked. ‘It’s to be a Tyrant of the Twisted Tree.’
‘Anything we need to do has already been done,’ replied Corvus, the warm humour returning.
Nanon smiled. ‘Take me back.’
***
He opened his eyes and saw tunnels of darkness between thick trees. The canopy blocked the sky and the ground was textured with logs and dense bramble bushes. To his left, Keisha was curled up in a ball, clutching her legs and rocking back and forth with a pained moan. On the ground before him was Rham Jas’s katana and his own longsword, discarded in the long grass. He had returned to his normal form, slender and unassuming, but his extremities still crackled with the divine energy of Brytag.
‘Some new sorcery, knife ears?’ purred the Jekkan.
Nanon looked up and saw the creature. It hung in the air, swaying between trees, its long, slender body moving as a snake in the dark air. It looked different. The nimbus of chaos was gone, as was the radiating pain of its speech. For the first time, he could actually look at it without wincing. Its angular face was feline and sensual with sharp eyes and long whiskers, feeling at the air. Its slender fingers scratched towards him with curved claws, but it was no longer terrifying.
‘Not new,’ replied Nanon. ‘And not sorcery.’
The Jekkan was bloated with the collective energy of the dead Fell Walkers, but its eyes now focused on the forest-dweller before it, a flicker of interest passing across its face.
‘What power is this?’ asked the Jekkan.
Nanon slowly leant down and picked up his blades. When he straightened, the floating creature before him had backed away, directing its servitor to guard it. The undulating beast had been hesitant, flowing forward only slowly, but now it was just a patch of oozing darkness, devoid of its maddening power.
‘You have one chance to leave,’ said Nanon. ‘Your Old Ones have no more power. They – and you – are just smoke and myth, with no place in the realm of form. You will never be a Tyrant of the Twisted Tree. Return to your ruins and die quietly.’
The Jekkan hissed, swaying in the air, a spectre of ageless chaos. Its slanted eyes conveyed no emotion, but Nanon could feel its confusion. It did not understand fear or hesitation. It had only ever known dominance and absolute power. Now, if it would not withdraw, it would feel the might of true divinity. Nanon did not want to kill so ancient a creature, but neither would he cower and allow the Jekkan to feed on the energy of the Fell Walkers or dominate this land as a Tyrant.
‘Back!’ he said with a strength of purpose that could topple the greatest tree. ‘I will end you if I have to.’
Nanon swelled back into his original form, rising in height and letting his limbs burn with power. He still held the blades, but they now shone with the collective energy of Brytag and the oldest of the Dokkalfar.
‘You would be the tastiest morsel to finish my meal,’ said the Jekkan, enunciating clearly, the words visibly slicing through nearby shrubs but sounding like nothing more than a wisp of wind to Nanon.
‘If you understood fear, you would feel it,’ announced the Shape Taker, striding forward down a dark tunnel of closely packed trees.
The servitor formed two huge eyes and looked at him with them. Hundreds of lesser eyes rippled across its surface. It didn’t form any tentacles or weapons; instead the shapeless mass looked and acted like a timid dog that has been struck by its master.
Nanon felt the sudden need to restate his presence. He took a wide stance and swung the shimmering katana at the Jekkan servitor. An arc of frozen air followed the blade as it sliced into the creature, cutting it smoothly into two lesser creatures, howling from a thousand mouths and thrashing against the mossy ground. It wasn’t dead, but Nanon knew it was primal enough to recognize a superior opponent and fear it as such.
The servitor parted and fell into two patches of black liquid, unsure how to react and powerless to defend its master. Nanon took two huge strides between the parted creature and approached the floating Jekkan, weaving his enchanted blades in the air.
The ageless creature glided further away, twisted confusion forming a strange expression on its face. It had no memories or knowledge to call upon to tell it how to react. Its only recourse was to flee – but it had something that didn’t belong to it and Nanon wanted it returned.
‘Give the energy back,’ he snarled. ‘It is not yours to take.’
‘The knife-eared people need it no longer,’ rasped the Jekkan.
‘But the forest does,’ he replied. ‘The Fell can once again be settled – it can still bloom and greet the daylight with green leaves and good brown earth. If you take the energy of the Dokkalfar this forest will twist and wither, darkening with each day that passes.’
The Jekkan gathered its arms across its chest, tapping its claws together. It was still moving away, but its slanted eyes were focused on the ancient forest-dweller before it.
‘You are a thrall,’ spat the Jekkan. ‘You are nothing to me.’
‘Give. It. Back.’
The Jekkan opened its slim mouth and howled, sending a violent distortion through the air. It withered trees, obliterated shrubs and flowed harmlessly round Nanon. Keisha was far enough back to not have been touched by the howl, but she was still curled up in a tight ball on the grass.
‘You are of the Great Race,’ stated Nanon. ‘You have seen what is and what will be, but you could not see this, for the divine is lost to you. You take the rotten energy of Shub-Nillurath, but cannot perceive your own end. Your world ended ages past and you are nothing but a relic that has not yet had the decency to die.’
‘This is wrong... this is wrong,’ shrieked the Jekkan, amazed that its words did not cut the forest dweller.
The Great Race of Jekka were not warriors. They used their servitors for war, and were, by nature, extremely cowardly. Nanon, on the other hand, was a warrior – and he was the first Tyr to attack a Jekkan.
He leapt at it, leaving the ground and sweeping his icy blades forward. The creature balked, but its face still didn’t register fear, even as the blades struck into its sensuous body. It contorted around the weapons, curving like a snake in the branches. Nanon felt the huge impact of his attack, but there was no blood and neither sword had cut flesh. Even so, the Jekkan flailed in the air, its claws lashing out to cut Nanon’s face. He withdrew the blades and struck again, smashing the katana and the longsword i
nto the creature’s head. Again there was no blood, but it reeled, as if dazed, and its feet hit the forest floor for the first time.
‘You wish to end me,’ said the Jekkan, doubled over against thick grass.
‘No,’ replied Nanon. ‘I wish you to give back what you stole.’
He was done talking. For a moment, Tyr Nanon the Shape Taker was the mightiest being in the lands of men. He was the oldest Dokkalfar and he was infused with divine energy. For a creature who had never known a god, it was a power unlike any other. Brytag’s energy wouldn’t last, but while it did, it was enough to overpower even a Jekkan.
He dropped the blades and clamped his hands to the Jekkan’s head, willing it to release the stolen energy. He had struck it four mighty blows that would easily kill any mortal creature. Now he was alarmed at how frail it appeared. Its skin felt like moist paper, folding and turning red under his fingers.
He could feel it trying to reach his mind. Its chaos magic lanced from wide, cat-like eyes, but he shrugged it off as if it were nothing more than wisps of smoke.
‘Give it back!’ he shouted, directing all his power into his hands and forcing the Jekkan to regurgitate the life-force of the Fell Walkers.
‘It is mine,’ wailed the creature, suddenly seeming to realize that it was not in control.
Stark white energy flowed from its mouth and its eyes, flooding the forest with untold centuries of power and will. As the light touched grass, it once more became a living green colour. It struck bark and returned life to ancient tree-trunks. Where there had been darkness and death, there was now a rapidly moving blanket of life and energy, giving the lost life-force of the Dokkalfar back to the Fell. Nanon saw faces he recognized flow as mist from the writhing Jekkan. Vithar Loth the Tree Father, his ghostly face as calm in death as it had been in life, rose slowly and settled into a peaceful repose on the forest floor, and then an instant later to nothing. Other faces followed, other expressions of tranquillity, peace and acceptance, each one adding to the spreading pool of energy, returning life to the forest and denying power to Shub-Nillurath.
