Warren rubbed his own shoulder. “Who doesn’t die wins the first prize. Tomorrow we try to go beyond the tower of Sabbath.”
“How?”
“We’re approaching the tunnel underneath—it was part of an underground temple, now half buried. Orange recommended it to take Crowley to the other side and all went well, then.”
Dag raised an eyebrow. “All went well, then,” he repeated. “That’s really reassuring.”
“Dag, what the fuck! I just finished arguing with my brother about—”
“Sorry.”
“What did you expect, a back entrance with a red carpet? I’m sorry, but I can’t grant one. Who doesn’t die wins…that surely means you’re ahead of us.”
“Ha-ha.” Dag threw a bean in the air and caught it with his mouth. “Do you have any idea about where the Hermit is?”
The white blood stared into the flames. “I tried to understand if Orange knew anything about it, bringing up the subject by chance. We sat talking about the perfect ass of a slave, he joked, I smoked my jointee and then I asked, By the way, what about the Hermit? The Lizard always swat the matter away with a wave of his hand. The son of a wrinkled bitch…who sent that message and all the rest…bah, it must be a big mess.” He got up and said, “By the way, let’s go for a walk, red-eyes. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Dagger watched him carefully. “No surprise the lizard didn’t speak. You suck at bringing up things by chance.”
The white blood didn’t answer. He turned around and climbed down the dark stairs.
“Follow him,” Ash said.
Sure of Solitude on his back, Dagger followed Warren. “What do you want to show me?”
“Shut up and walk.” When they were outside, Warren drew his ensiferum sphere to light the way through the debris.
They reached a square paved with broken marble. Some uneven steps led to the umpteenth statue of Skyrgal standing high above the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Everywhere in Adramelech the Lord of Destruction was depicted in his divine dignity, imposing and proud, so far from the one titan representing him from life, the one on the top of Golconda, all its limbs contracted by fear and shame in the presence of defeat.
They walked around the ancient basin of a monumental fountain made of red porphyry, toward a circle of swords stuck into the ground at the feet of the god. The purple light made their edges shine, just like the hilts carved on the appearance of Angra and Skyrgal shouting their silvery, silent screams against each other. They were old weapons, but not rusty.
Manegarm, Dagger thought. “You didn’t bring us here by chance, did you?”
Warren sat on the first step, watching his hands and playing with a hangnail. “This is the place where Crowley sacrificed his Faithful to the Disciples waiting for their arrival. It’s their meeting place.”
Dagger looked at the weapons, caressing their hilts. Each sword, a Blood Brother he sacrificed. He brought a hand to Solitude, touching the notches on its grip. Among these, there were those of the Faithful the Pendracon had killed by his own hand—all buried beneath the deepest one, that Dagger had etched when Olem had forced him to weed out his soul.
Come full circle, Dagger realized that the swords were only eleven. “Someone was spared.”
“Yes. Someone was.”
Dag felt a change behind him. Solitude seemed restless. He remembered what Olem himself had said in the underground room where their relationship had grown up, not all who left with him, that damn night, did not return. “Olem was here with him.”
“He was the only one saved by Crowley’s fratricidal wrath.” Warren kindled a jointee. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and handed it to him. “Hey.”
“I don’t picture you making long, friendly speeches.”
“I think someone should talk to you, sooner or later. For the good of all.”
“Of all of you?”
“Of all.”
Dagger started to walk around the blades. “It should have been you in his place, soiling your hands with the Immortal Rites and damning your soul in the desperate attempt to save those you loved. You always like to poke your nose where you shouldn’t, right? Like the memories of people, the one place where they don’t want to hear your stupid, wiseass voice.”
War puffed. “Listen. I like you, okay? You’re the one who shouldn’t make his same mistakes, putting your goal in front of everything else, sacrificing who is on your side for who you’d like to have. It’s the worst bullshit you could do. It always is.”
He knows everything. Oh, War…stay close to me, my friend. Dagger craved for the gleaming of the blades around him. “You won’t get angry if I ask you something.”
“What?”
“Did you really force Erin to stay with me for…that? Are you really playing with her feelings?”
Warren grinned. “Creation or Destruction?”
“Oh. I heard that. What the fuck does it mean?”
“There are two ways to solve the problem you represent. You already know plan ‘A’: Megatherion, the dream of Skyrgal. The Agent Orange told you the backup plan. What’s your favorite one?”
“My private life is not everyone’s business.”
“Of course it is. Oh, I don’t mean to give you too much responsibility. That’s one thing that doesn’t get along with…well, you know how it is, don’t you?”
“Hmm?”
“Having too many thoughts rolling around doesn’t help in that moment, I mean—”
“And so Disciples’ rotten ears ring every time I and Erin…” Dagger didn’t continue.
“More or less.”
Dag shook his head. “I don’t love her. I was wrong. You don’t know why I did it, no one knows, but I was wrong anyway. We’re playing a script someone wrote for us, but all fantasy ends with a cold awakening in the real world.”
“Yet, there’s a curious detail. You’re reasoning just like the Disciples. Araya wanted to split your power—it’s our only hope to neutralize you.” He grinned. “So we go back to square one: Creation or Destruction? I think you’ve already decided. You want Megatherion, don’t you?”
“Stop it.”
“After all, it would take everything away: the pain of growing up alone…”
“Stop it.”
“Sannah…”
“War…!”
“The look in Seeth’s eyes, as she died.”
Dagger lowered his face and clenched his fists in silence.
“Please, don’t cry. You’d be a disappointment—still so fragile and insecure after all that’s happened to you since the dawn of time.”
Dagger walked to the blank spot where the circle was interrupted. He unsheathed Solitude and drove it into the ground, filling that void. Then he looked up, watching the white blood. “Who asked you to talk to me?”
“Someone who cares about you beyond what you represent for the whole fucking universe.”
“Ianka?”
“That was a joke, wasn’t it.” Warren took a new, long breath before focusing back on his hands. He spoke slowly, “Further on, you’ll find yourself at a crossroads, leading to other crossroads. Every time you make a choice, the Hotankars are going to follow you to their ruin. You’ll cause suffering at every step you take, and we’ll be here watching, dying for your every action. Remember that—it’s a matter of respect. You don’t belong only to yourself. You’re a link in my chain.”
There’s something strange about him, but I can’t figure out what, Dagger thought. What are you really trying to tell me?
A strange black bird kept them company, watching them from the eye of Skyrgal. Dagger returned its gaze. “Destruction,” he found himself saying. “I will pray for Kugar. I will call her name out loud. Is that what you don’t want to hear? Well, I don’t give a damn—for you, for your plans, for all the desert that keeps on dying around me. I’d die for her, if I could only see her now.”
Warren offered a nervous laugh, then dropped the jointe
e butt. “See? Talking is always a good idea. We have a long way to go together. It’s better to know what’s going through your head.”
Fuck you too…Dagger left him. He went back to his friends, now asleep, and lay down next to Erin, wrapping her in his arms. He felt her move in her sleep and instinctively stroked her hair to calm her down. “Seeth…” he called in a whisper. They don’t understand, they can’t understand. You look just like her. Oh, Erin, don’t leave me again. You’re the oldest memory I have…still alive…still alive…
He repeated that in his mind until he fell asleep.
*
He heard steps in the night.
He got up and looked at the darkness around him. A thick fog rose from the rubble. His friends were gone and there was no sign of their presence.
Apart from the blood on the ground.
“Erin?” No answer back. He stumbled forward. “Ash! Ianka?”
He saw some shadows in the dark. He bent over a body lying in the sand and turned it over. He recognized Schizo, his belly ripped open by a Tankar glove.
Dagger stepped back, stumbled over another body and fell to the ground face to face with Ash. There was only his head. The white blood opened his lips to speak, out of breath.
Dag drew back looking desperately for Erin.
“She’s not here,” Ianka whispered. “She isn’t anywhere. She isn’t real. It’s a ghost you’re in love with.”
Dagger perceived other shadows out of the corner of his eyes, but every time he turned around to face them, they disappeared. Yet he could hear their laughter in the predatory emptiness. “Shut up!”
“You shut up!”
“Ian, what—”
“She’s already driven you crazy. Oh, a long, long time ago, but you don’t remember. You can’t remember.”
Dagger turned toward the horizon. In the moonlight, an unknown force shook the ruins. The distant towers and statues collapsed, and the strength advanced tracing a path of destruction.
The wind blew impetuously, but Dagger stood. He unsheathed Solitude and brandished it against the looming nothingness.
The shadow rose from the forest of ruins and poured against him, but it soon became a purplish, friendly light. Surprise invaded his heart and prevented him from fighting. He understood its meaning, its significance. He thought he was becoming mad.
It was beautiful.
‘I’ve seen you!’
*
“I’ve already seen you!”
“Dag?”
“I—”
“Dag!”
He opened his eyes.
The smile of Erin. “You were dreaming. How can you be always the last one to wake up?”
“Warren?” Dagger asked.
Ash replied, “He hasn’t come back.”
Dagger stood up abruptly. He led them to the circle of swords, heaving a sigh of relief when he saw the white blood. “Look,” he said. “Your brother must be crazy enough to have watched over a bunch of ghosts all night long.”
Warren was in the same position where he had left him. Wait a minute, Dagger thought.
He drew near, slowly outstretching his hand, but before he could lay it on the white blood’s shoulder, War said, “If we march nonstop, we should reach that damn tunnel today.”
“He’s still alive,” Ash said. “Dammit…”
“Time to go.” War stood up and looked Dagger straight into his eyes.
“I can’t wait.”
The white blood shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
They were back on the move through a hostile nothingness made of stone faces, unreachable buildings, and shapeless masses of fallen rock. They ran across ghost villages made above, beneath or amid the ruins—dry clothes hanging on the still washing lines, wooden doors slamming against the dusty wind, dogs on their last legs waiting at the doorway for someone who would never return.
“Tankars?” Ianka gave voice to his thoughts. “Tankars haven’t been here since…”
Warren shook his head, indicating several blood graffiti on the walls, next to every door: circles with slashes through them. “Orgor was here. That symbol means that the building was searched, and that children, old and sick people have been soothed, women treated with every respect, men willing to work rewarded with the continuation of their lives, while the rebel ones…well, they’ve known the caress of a blade. Orgor probably used the tunnel of Sahid, with whom he had a long business relationship, but the blood is old—we shouldn’t have the pleasure of meeting him and his men.”
“How will we recognize the tunnel?” Dagger asked. “And where are we going after that?”
“It opens on a vast open space. Its entrance is flanked by the statues of two headless Gorgors—two ancient priests judging by their clothes.”
“And as to the second question?”
“My thoughts are pretty clear about that, but first I want that gigantic black phallus once and for all behind me.”
Ianka chuckled. “No way. Did he really say that?”
“Yes, he did,” Ash confirmed.
“What?”
“Well, brother, what you said about the black phallus behind you could be…a little misinterpreted.”
Warren stopped. He looked at them and thought about it. “Oh, fuck.”
“Exactly,” Schizo said.
They marched long, and yet at times it seemed that they had never moved into that static nothingness made of brutal faces and broken statues. The constant feeling that everything around them had eyes to see and ears to hear never left them.
War led them in silence until nightfall, when they reached the square he had talked about and the two statues mutilated by time. “Here we are.”
They climbed the dune covering part of the entrance, and scurried through the opening below the lintel carved to depict two parallel crabs with their claws outstretched toward the top of a column. They slipped inside, slammed down on the stone floor, and stood up with their leather breastplates already full of sand.
Drawing out his sphere of ensiferum, Ian lit a long hall with three naves, marked by wide columns without groove and covered with partly missing paintings. “Wow, look at that. Dag, Ash, look!”
“You look like a kid in front of his first pussy.” Ash leaned back against a pillar and looked around. “Nice indeed. What’s this, another place you want to show us to make peace?”
“Sand in the vagina, sand in the vagina—sooner or later it becomes a problem.” Warren took out his ensiferum sphere. “I’m glad you like the place, but we must hurry, we’re exposed and vulnerable.”
They marched and marched in the timid light of their spheres, admiring that artistic delirium—the thousand colors that Gorgors had given to the void. Their rush left them no time to interpret the endless stories in front of them, but there seemed to be a recurring theme of a giant crab on the seashore. Around it, a population with amber skin held ceremonies and sacrifices.
“What was worshiped here?” Asked Dag.
“Maybe a fantasy, nothing more.” Warren looked around. “The unknown question—the same at the bottom of our mind. The prime mover that drives us to wonder about the meaning of what surrounds us. Is it not the peculiar characteristic of man, to observe—”
“Is he starting again with the explanations?” Schizo asked his friends with the sole purpose of being heard by the white blood.
“Did you already finish your magic dust?”
“Of course I did, but that doesn’t answer the question. What the fuck is the crab?”
“The ‘x’. The point where to dig.”
“Perfect.”
“This is the unknown god, Ian. The foundations of these temples are stuck into a forgotten past. Many religious buildings that worship the present gods—I believe the Sanctuary and Sabbath, too—were built on their remains.”
A god removed from the world, just like the Disciples at the Fortress, Dagger thought. He looked away when he saw a baby pictured on a black alta
r, in the presence of giant claws. “But why the crab?”
The white blood shrugged. “This city was once full of canals and wells, as you have seen. Araya supposes there were freshwater crabs virtually everywhere—hundreds of species hidden into the city sewers and irrigation ditches, as big as a mogwart or the size of an insect. In his library, the Messhuggah kept a collection of fossils and some fragments of claws were impressive. Maybe it was a cult related to water, or to life…or what the fuck I know.”
Dagger approached a column. The dark skinned figures looked familiar. “Gorgors?”
“Probably,” Warren answered, pointing at a frame: a large pot on the fire; inside it, nude, tiny figures wearing ceremonial, scary masks. “Perhaps it was a secret cult. We’ll never know. It was blown away by the Cry of Skyrgal along with the rest of this city. I don’t think someone regrets it.”
“Children?” Dagger asked.
“Hanoi demanded a very high price of his faithful.” War opened his mouth to continue, closed it, and then only said, “Let’s rest for a while.”
They sat down at the foot of the huge pillar placed at the center of an intersection with a secondary tunnel, almost entirely filled with sand. They took the opportunity to nibble on something.
“Chickpeas and salted lamb,” Ian said. “Now I know what they serve in hell. We should get back to the Fortress, if only for some grilled meat drowned in pints of draug.”
“If you’re trying to make me suffer, you’re doing a wonderful job,” Ash said standing up.
“Where are you going?” his brother asked.
“Where, in your opinion? Only in literature people never piss. What the Ktisis do they have, a knot around their—?”
“That was a very popular punishment among the Gorgors, you know?” Ianka said. “And also at the Sanctuary.”
“Who cares?” Warren muttered, standing up. “I’ll go with you.” He took his brother under his arm, disappearing into the dark.
Erin came to lay close to Dagger, snuggling against his side.
“Hey,” he kissed her forehead.
“Dag, will you get angry if I tell you something?”
“It will be a little difficult, in here.”
God of Emptiness Page 12
