To which the Earthmother gave a nod of agreement, but the Lord of Twilight just laughed.
“I say yes! — carry out your plan!”
Tauric clenched his fists and violet flame wreathed them. “I will stop you….”
But he paused as another of the Void masters came into view bearing a limp form in inky black arms — it was Suviel and even Calabos could tell that she was dead.
*We*can*bring*her*back*to*life*and*return*her*to*the*realm*between*if*you*agree*to*the*division*of*Time*
“I had forgotten how cruel you could be,” said the Earthmother.
*Or*would*you*prefer*to*contend*against*both*ourselves*and*the*Lord*of*Twilight?*It*would*not*be*a*long*battle*
Calabos almost wished that Tauric and the Earthmother would choose to resist, but they looked at each other for a long moment before Tauric said bitterly;
“Do as you will — we shall not oppose you.”
Suviel stirred in the cradling blackness of one of the Void masters, glancing about her, and in the next instant her bearer rose straight up and soon vanished in the upper gulfs of the Void. Then a series tremors passed through the plain and flickers of red and gold radiance gathered around them, building until they joined together in a single dazzling flash of power. In the aftermath, the foggy murk seemed darker than before.
*It*is*done*
The three gods glanced about them then regarded the Void masters.
“So which world is this?” growled the Lord of Twilight. “Along which path of Time are we passing?”
One of the Void masters began to drift towards him.
*In*splitting*the*course*of*Time* it said *certain*weaknesses*have*occurred*thus*this*is*not*a*good*world*for*you*
At this the Earthmother let out a cry and lunged towards the Lord of Twilight, closely followed by Tauric. Calabos watched in awe as white fire clashed and clawed against blades of hot green power while Tauric sent violet whips darting in. Then the Void masters converged and called down shards of indivisible blackness from the yawning heights. As their terrible impacts struck the Lord of Twilight to the ground and hammered through his defences he bellowed -
“I can see it! — I can see my victory!….”
Then a concerted rush of attacks broke apart the last of his shielding powers and the howl of his death-agony was heard for only a moment or two before his essence shattered in a bright, abrupt wave of force which drowned everything in blinding green radiance….
The Void masters also attempted to close off the Wellsource, the Sleeping God said in Calabos’ thoughts, But there were only able to curtail it to a trickle.
“And Tauric and the Earthmother,” he said. “They joined to become you, correct?”
And admirable piece of deduction, Calabos — yes, this is what happened, a fusion made pragmatic by our greatly reduced state in the wake of the enemy’s shattering.
“And what happened in the other world?” Calabos said, seeing with his returning sight a gloomy, grey-brown mist all around. “Where the Lord of Twilight triumphed…” A realisation came to him, “…and he became…”
The Great Shadow. After defeating us in that place he enslaved us to his will, combined our powers with his, then broke the Void masters before wreaking havoc throughout much of the Void, into which he dragged all the other realms.
For a moment Calabos did not grasp the full meaning of the Sleeping God’s words, then the cold horror of understanding crept over him.
“All the other realms?” he said. “He dragged them into the Void?”
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that his wrecking of the Void’s underpinnings caused the realms to collapse into it, but it was still his intention.
“The death toll must have been…indescribable,” Calabos murmured.
None perished, for he made himself master of all laws and could impose or prevent death according to his whim. Thus when all the lands contracted and crashed down into the sundered Void, he kept all alive, whatever their tribulations. After all, as absolute ruler of the Nightrealm he wanted servants, worshippers, and all manner of entertaining underlings. Many tried to end their own lives when they realised what had transpired, but that proved futile. There was no escape.
Calabos was grim. “It must be a terrible place.”
Every village, town and city from every land lies side by side in the Nightrealm’s tilted territories, crammed together in a single, vast expanse of buildings. Districts make war upon districts with unrestrained savagery, and occasionally rivals form alliances to conduct assaults on the Great Shadow’s own fastnesses, all to no avail. Such convulsions serve only to divert and amuse the lord of all existence. Also, his selfish, delusional activities have distorted the scales of Time between this world and the Nightrealm, such that it flows faster there than here.
“Yet he decides to turn his attention to our world with conquest in mind,” Calabos said. “Has he become bored?”
Perhaps over-familiar with the caperings of his myriads of prisoners, but also gnawed at by the knowledge that another world exists where the memory of his power was reduced to semi-legendary tales. It could only have been a short step from hating our world to actively moving against it.
The surrounding grey-brown mist began turning into the detailed density of foliage, as if he were poised somewhere within the vast tree that had filled the vortex.
“It occurs to me,” Calabos said. “That if no-one died during the collapse of the realms, then all are still living.”
In a manner of speaking, yes.
“So what became of the other versions of the Earthmother and Tauric?
The Great Shadow has a special prison for those who earn his deepest hate, a vast wall of ice that stretches up behind his throne and which holds them all embedded in its freezing grip. That is where he keeps the Earthmother, near at hand for whenever the need for torment takes him. As for Tauric, he succumbed to his enslavement…
“So those Shatterseed rituals and the expanding blights are intended to add this world to the Nightrealm, yes?” Calabos said. “Are the Void masters here going to let this happen?”
They have done more than you suppose, and always as invisibly as possible.
Calabos managed a wry smile. “And am I right in thinking that the thread of my fate wil at some point lead me across to the Nightrealm?”
This is possible, and not just for yourself… The Sleeping God’s voice paused for a long moment. And that crossing may come sooner than you think.
The great mass of ghostly vegetation swung around him with a gliding smoothness and suddenly he was back on the pillartop platform with the Sleeping God staring down from the parted crown of that colossal tree in the vortex. His sense were reeling from the abruptness of the transition and when someone grasped his shoulder he thought he would overbalance and pitch forward….
“Calabos! — it’s Ondene!” came Coireg’s voice. “He’s just been taken…”
“Ondene?” he said, trying to force alertness into his thoughts. “By whom?”
“A spirit-wraith came flying through the outer winds of the vortex and was on him before anyone could react.” Coireg looked distraught. “He let out a cry of such terror…then he scrambled away and vanished down the steps. Qothan and some of the chiefs went after him….”
You must follow him, Calabos.
The Sleeping God’s voice thundered forth from the muffled moan of the vortex, and all eyes gazed up at that majestic countenance.
There can only be one destination for him and that is where you must go too.
The Nightrealm, Calabos thought sombrely.
Above them the Sleeping God turned, eyes closing as it withdrew into the giant tree whose foliage closed around it. Then the tree’s leaves and branches blurred and dissolved into the whirling, dark roar of the storm. Calabos watched it go, then headed for the stairs.
“Are you able and well for such a chase, ser Calabos?” said Prince Agasklin.
“I will on
ly know when I make the attempt,” he said, gathering up his robe as he descended the dark spiral of steps.
Coireg was hard on his heels with a lantern, making it easier to keep his footing during what became a hectic vertical pursuit. At last, with aching feet and scraped hands, they reached the bottom of the staircase and stumbled out into the wind-blasted stone bridge. The scuttled across it at a low stoop and gratefully entered the tunnels which led down through dry warmth to the path flanked by shattered slabs of rock. With the rushing howl of the vortex filling the air, Calabos could hear nothing else but he saw Ondene before the others, up on a boulder by the path, crouched on his knees, his head down and clasped in his hands. Of Qothan and his companions there was no sign.
He was instantly aware of Calabos’ approach, head whipping up to look with eyes that stared with animal wildness from a twitching, sweat-glazed face.
“The stones…have no face yet they….speak to me!” Ondene cried jerkily. “Speaking stones speaking….are they the…stone of Gorla, stones of Keshada….”
“Corlek,” Calabos said calmly. “Listen to my voice…” As he slowly advanced he tried to project his words with farspeech, hoping that he might reach Ondene. “Listen to me, follow my voice, ignore anything else you might hear…”
Hate twisted Ondene’s features. “Traitorous old man! I’ll feed your eyes to the eaterbeasts…” Then between one word and the next his voice and expression changed, “….Calabos, help me, I beg you, I can’t fight…”
Then Qothan and two chieftains appeared further along the path. Ondene spotted them, leaped to his feet and clambered down the other side of the boulder, outwith the path. Calabos cursed and ran along a way, until he found a gap through the shattered rock. With the others coming after, he found a way across an expanse of jumbled stone shards as he followed the manic figure of Corlek Ondene towards the shore. But rather than head for the waters’ edge, he mounted the flank of a weather-scored stone outcropping which lengthened into a promontory jutting out into the sea.
Ondene ran to the furthermost edge and stood there, with huge waves roaring and crashing just below and flinging up clouds and spouts of spray. As Calabos climbed onto the lower slope of the promontory, Ondene glanced back at him and laughed. Then faced the sea, raised his hands and bellowed a string of words barely audible against the raucous noise of the waves.
For a moment there was no other sound to be heard in that din, then through it came a distant sonorous chiming, as if out in the depths a giant bell had been struck. Seconds later it sounded again, louder and nearer, and Calabos could feel reverberations in the stone beneath his feet.
The third was a deafening, jarring boom and as it assailed the ears and made the ground shake, the waters before the promontory erupted. Clusters of dark tentacles lunged up out of the waves, slender ones and thick or articulated or sheathed in scales or bearing collars of spines. In their thousand-strong profusion they coiled and squirmed towards the rock promontory while still more lesser tendrils writhed in the rocky shoreline surf.
Calabos felt a hand on his arm, pulling him back. It was Qothan.
“It is Grath the Unbounded! We’re in great danger here!…”
Grath the Unbounded…which Calabos knew was supposedly an ancient sea god. But Qothan was clearly adamant, even nervous, about their safety and he found himself torn between that and the urge to reach Ondene who was now a mere dozen paces away. Then a deep-throated, plangent groan sounded as a vast shape reared up before the outcropping, like some immense neck down whose rugose, filth-encrusted flanks water streamed. Ondene stood before the grotesque colossus, clenched fists held before him as he continued to croon something unintelligible.
Calabos shouted at him to get back but Ondene only cast a grinning glance over his shoulder without interrupting his invocation. Then there was another massive, sepulchral groan and the end of the huge tentacular neck unfolded into a dark, glistening mouth. As it dipped to come level with the end of the promontory, Ondene uttered a cry of triumph and leaped straight into it. Calabos caught the merest glimpse of him falling into an inky gullet before the immense mouth closed in on itself. Then it leaned back, curving as it fell into the sea with a mighty crash sending long curtains of water gouting up on either side. Likewise, all the lesser tentacles and tendrils swiftly withdrew into the churning waves and in seconds the gigantic being was gone from sight.
“Mothers name!” said Coireg who was getting to his feet nearby. “That was Grath? — so is Ondene dead?”
“No, friend Coireg,” said Qothan. “Grath is known as the Unbounded because the appendage and extremities of his vast entwining form reach to every part of the girdling ocean, to every coast and beach. Grath is a roadway through the seas, a path made swift by the intrinsic sorcery of his nature — no matter what shore is the Ondene-Shadowking’s destination, he will be there in less than an hour.”
“Sejeend,” Coireg said to Calabos who nodded.
“Which is where I should be going too,” he said. “According to the Sleeping God.”
“Yes, this god imparts as many mysteries as answers,” muttered Coireg, as if half to himself.
Then Prince Agasklin came into view, clambering up onto the outcropping, followed by two of the younger-looking Israganthir chieftains.
“There may be a way to take you to there, Calabos,” he said, glancing at Qothan who nodded determinedly.
Calabos started to ask what he meant, then Qothan and the two newcomers began to doff their outer robes as their forms began to grow and change, torsos blurring, limbs becoming more heavily muscled, with long, hooked wings fading into solidity over their shoulders. And suddenly he understood, and laughed softly.
“Friend Agasklin,” he said. “The efforts of you all humble me, yet I would ask a small additional boon before departing for Sejeend, namely a swift visit to the Stormclaw to recover a certain sword of mine.”
Agasklin gave a faint smile. “This shall be done, then we shall send you speeding across the ocean, Calabos. May your fate be a kind one!”
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
Open the gates,
For through that monstrous mouth,
Lie all the dreams,
Where hope has died.
—The Black Saga Of Culri Moal, xi, 3
>Beneath a bright, cloud-scattered morning sky the grey seeding shroud rippled faintly, wrinkles coming and going as nutrition from the far-off exanding edges flowed into the centre, here where the Imperial palace once stood, overlooking Sejeend. Only the broken, grey-swathed ruins of walls remained — everything else had collapsed into the shroud to be devoured.
At the centre of it all sat the Shattergate, a vaguely conical outcropping with a dark, gaping door in its sloping face. Beside it, a hooded figure sat on a block of fallen masonry which seemed as free of the shroud as he. Yet on closer examination an observer would have seen the greyness creeping up the block and the grey streaks on the man’s hand and legs.
Xabo-once-Jumil knew that the shroud would take him eventually, just as it had finally gnawed away at the glamour which had sustained Vorik. Yes, he thought, soon, blessed soon the seeding shroud will eat away this false body and return my essence to the Nightrealm and to the glittering dream-court of my master.
It had been a great success, the campaign to absorb this world and all its works. From yesterday afternoon and all through the night the quick expansion of the shroud in all five locations had taken all their enemies by surprise before it reached either its inherent limits or natural boundaries like the Great Canal surrounding the Isle of Besdarok or the Valewater which divided Sejeend. It would not be long now before the first advance squads of the Black Host emerged from all five Shattergates and began preparations for the true conquest.
Yet even as Xabo relaxed into these feelings of contentment, he became aware of a presence drawing near from the direction of the sea. He extended his perceptions, partially employing the sensitivities of the
shroud, and noticed some activity amongst those Watcher mages on the north bank of the Valewater. But he dismissed that and turned his attention to the rounded, grey-cloaked expanse of the former docks and wharves, where the waves lapped and few birds dared come close.
The wait was short-lived. There was a deep, resonant booming sound and a gargantuan, lop-necked creature burst up from the waters accompanied by squirming clusters of tendrils by the thousand. The end of the immense tentacle opened at the waterline and from the slimy darkness a familiar figure emerge and stepped down onto the shroud-coated strand. Whiplike extrusions rose from the shroud and wavered towards the newcomer for a moment before sinking back into the even greyness. Xabo smile — the Shadowking had returned.
A fitful shower was falling by the time he appeared at the edged of the palace ruins and began to wend his way inwards. Xabo’s good humour persisted, stoked by the nuances of change in the Shadowking’s manner and aura, evidence of growth in that everlong essence coupled with new experience.
“There is purpose in you,” he said. “Our enemies thought to trap and diminish you, but instead they have helped you grow. Did you know of Grath the Unbounded before this?”
“I knew,” the Shadowking said, entering the roofless chamber, “but I did not know as I do now.”
Xabo smiled, feeling the skin pull taut over bone like the imperfect mask that it was. “So now you are here — what do you want? Power? Dominion? All you need do is wait here for the Duskgeneral’s marshalls and captains to arrive — they will more than grateful to cooperate with you in the subjugation of this world.”
The Shadowking said nothing, just glanced at him as he strolled leisurely across the grey floor towards the Shattergate.
“Or do you wish to slay me?” Xabo said. “It would be neither a surprise nor a true death, merely a hastening of the inevitable. Kill me and my essence will travel back across to the Nightrealm and the shining dream-courts of my master who will give me another form, one more fitting to my prestige than this poor flesh.”
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